


White Nights

by spicedpiano, tahariel



Series: White Nights Universe [1]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Arranged Marriage, Diaspora, Dragons, Eugenics, Fantastical Iceland, Fictional Religion & Theology, First Time, Genocide, Genosha, Graphic Description of Corpses, Happy Ending, Historical Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kings & Queens, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mpreg, Political Alliances, Political Intrigue, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 193,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/pseuds/spicedpiano, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duke Erik Lehnsherr of Ironhold needs an omega to carry on his line, and Earl Charles Xavier of Westchester needs an alpha to give him the political leverage he needs in order to make his sister Queen. An arranged marriage brings them together, but Erik's lust for war and Charles' hidden agenda threaten to tear them apart.  In the frozen Northlands of Ironhold life is hard and cold, and both Charles and Erik must give up their pretense and see each other as they really are: perfect for each other, if only they'll acknowledge it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely _A Game of Thrones_ -inspired. 
> 
> There's a prize (short ficlet) for the first person to guess which coauthor wrote which character's POV! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ETA:** A Chinese translation of this fic is being posted [here](http://www.mtslash.com/thread-112236-1-1.html), by the lovely wangzaifengfeng and Jin_C_E!
> 
> wangzaifengfeng和Jin_C_E[在随缘居上](http://www.mtslash.com/thread-112236-1-1.html)翻译这片！感谢翻译，你们的翻译真是太美了！

_Charles_

Outside the carriage window the landscape is strange and melancholy in the late afternoon mist, softened by the grey light that promises rain later. Charles watches it roll past with his elbow propped upon the sill, and takes in the bizarre and twisted shapes of the rocks, like seafoam made solid in mid-spray; there are almost no trees, and what trees there are are stunted, carved by the wind into driftwood oddities. The North is a very desolate place.

“My Lord?”

Charles startles and turns to look at the other man in the carriage. “Yes, Milbury?”

“My Lord, one of the outriders has informed me that we are now half a day’s drive from Ironhold.” Milbury’s mouth twitches in what might be intended as a smile, but there is no warmth there. It’s not surprising - he’s Kurt’s servant, not Charles’, after all, and Kurt always shows Charles little enough respect - there is no love lost between them. No wonder that his men are just as cruelly pleased to be sending him off to be married far away; besides, the man has an unpleasant, weaselly little mind, only interested in pleasing the most powerful person in his vicinity, nothing more. “I was unsure if you had heard.”

“I had not.” Charles nods as graciously as he can and turns back to the window, rolling out his telepathy across the roughclad hills, searching for any sign of life out there and finding none. “Thank you.”

“At your service, my Lord,” Milbury says, but Charles has already forgotten his presence for a better distraction. Outside the window the rocks and scrub grass have begun to be dotted with snow.

 

~*~

 

In the South, Charles’ family Duchy had been famous for its orchards. Great wide-branched peach trees, with their hot pink blossom in springtime; white-flowered and upright pear trees, with so much ripe fruit in the autumn that the ground was littered with it, soft and round. Fields of blackberries, raspberries and strawberries, tended to and woven cane to cane, plucked clean by the entire staff and the whole Ducal family come harvest time, everyone out together in their oldest clothes, stained at lip and finger with juice and laughing in the sun.

Here, as they drive up and up into the mountains towards Charles’ new home, there are white, crisp snowfields instead, broken up only by the occasional trail left behind by an animal or by running meltwater, pouring into the ragged, rift-torn earth. There is water everywhere up here, either frozen or roaring down the mountainside in waterfalls, washing all away.

They start to see people once they reach the first plateau, small villages mostly, turf-covered longhouses and animal pens. As they ride through Charles stares out at the people in their homespun and wonders how they don’t all freeze to death - none of them are wearing furs, despite the snow on the ground. Charles himself has been cold for hours, swaddled up in furs and wool, and Milbury is much the same, huddled into his own corner and trying to look dignified.

It’s so - quiet, in his head, up here. There are so few minds around other than his own escorts, and Charles withdraws his usual telepathic range so he can pretend that it’s not silent outside, that he’s just chosen not to listen.

“How much farther is it?” Charles asks eventually, sticking his head out the window to call to the nearest guardswoman as the carriage rumbles across a long, perilous-looking bridge, spattered with water from the waterfall that split the road in the first place. The air is wet and fresh and Charles’ eyelashes and hair are immediately jewelled with the spray.

“We’re here, my Lord,” the woman calls back, and takes her hand from the reins long enough to point ahead at the curve of the road. Charles follows with his gaze, and sees -

Ironhold, carved into the rock, a castle fortress looming ahead like the very bones of the mountain itself, its walls so high that surely even birds have to climb to top them, pennants flapping in the wind and the figures walking atop the fortifications so small that Charles could cover each with his little fingernail. Ironhold, last and greatest of the barbarian fortresses, defeated only after prolonged siege and disease took its toll on the Snowlanders who had defended it. Ironhold, the Ducal seat of Charles’ husband-to-be.

Charles wonders if Duke Erik is waiting to see his new purchase, or if Charles is to be taken to the stables and brushed down first, given a good meal of oats and hot mash and made ready for inspection.

He withdraws into the carriage before they rattle through the great gates, and opens his mind, sitting perfectly still as the long passageway opens into a large courtyard; it’s bustling with people, a hubbub of minds and thoughts, and Charles spies a forge as they swing around to make room for the baggage coach to come in behind them. There are soldiers drilling with weapons and servants carrying heavy loads of linens and food and barrels, horses and chickens and goats, all together within the castle walls. And stood by the main entrance to the keep there is a group of official-looking people, in formal robes and coats and, in some cases, armour - this, Charles reasons as they pull to a stop in front of the doors, must be the welcoming party.

The door of his carriage opens, and the noise of it all rushes in, along with the smell of hot metal and sulphur. “Get out,” Cain says, stepping aside without offering Charles his hand to help, and shoving his horse out of the way where it’s tethered to his belt by the reins.

Rising slowly, Charles smoothes down his tunic and furs with the flats of his palms before stepping out onto the flagstones and pausing to look around.

“Shit and corruption,” Cain mutters behind him, and gives Charles a shove towards the gathered officials.

He stumbles forward with a yelp of surprise, only keeping his feet by the narrowest of margins; when he looks up everyone is staring at him, and some of the guards are sniggering, along with, Charles is dismayed to see, some of the keepspeople. He can’t suppress the hot flush of embarrassment that rises to his face, and so it’s with humiliation shaping his mouth that Charles makes a bow, straightening to look at the gathered alphas in front of him with as much dignity as he can muster.

“My Lord Earl,” the man in front says, mouth twitching with amusement even as he steps forward and makes a rough bow in return. He’s a rough-looking sort of alpha all over, from his bushy black hair to the heavily scuffed armour he’s wearing, dented and obviously well-used, not to mention the small spikes on the knuckles of his gauntlets, curved, like the claws of some wild beast. “Welcome to Ironhold. I’m Logan, Captain of the Ironguard, and these here are court people I won’t bother introducing. The Duke regrets not coming to meet you himself, and so on and so forth. I’m to show you in so you can do whatever you need to before dinner.”

Charles lifts his chin for a moment, about to give a smart answer, but then he remembers his plan.

“Oh,” he says instead, looking about at them all as though taken aback, in a voice softer than his own, higher-pitched - not by much, but enough to make him sound younger than he is. Together with his face, it’s enough to make most of the alphas in front of him soften in response, even to elicit a faint note of pity for this young omega, so far from home. “That’s - I understand. He must be very busy.” He pauses for a moment before continuing with a note of forced bravery, “I would be very glad of a warm fire right now, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Captain Logan gives Charles a look from under those bushy brows that suggests he suspects Charles is not as innocent as he’s making out, but he says nothing except, “This way, my Lord,” and gestures for Charles to follow.

Clasping his hands demurely behind his back, Charles steps between the other courtiers and tries not to laugh when he hears Cain cursing behind them as he goes to hurry after, only to be hindered by his horse, still tethered to his belt. The inner hall, however, is enough of a distraction to keep him from breaking character. The outside of the keep was forbidding enough, but this… the door opens into an enormous vaulted chamber, the walls lined with at least a dozen doors, and at the far end what looks like a room entirely enclosed from the rest of the hall, its walls as high as the chamber itself and clearly intended for some special purpose. Charles can’t even begin to guess what that might be - the small door opposite is chained shut, clearly off-limits, but with an alcove above it cut _through_ the wall, like a tiny window, through which he can see the flicker of a light casting moving shadows inside, like some sort of mummer’s play.

The whole place has the feel of a temple, echoing and vast, and quiet, despite all the keep’s busyness - it even smells like incense, though no kind Charles recognises, deep and resinous. To have a room so large kept empty and purposeless seems bizarrely wasteful, and Charles cannot help but stop to ponder it, his curiosity catching him out of his concentration on his role as he looks around.

The Captain makes an impatient noise, and Charles starts, twisting to look at him with a surprise that’s unfeigned. “Through here,” Logan says gruffly once he has Charles’ attention, and leads him through one of the doors on the left into a long, narrow corridor and away.

There is no pause to give a commentary, or any sort of tour; they just walk in silence past room after room, the castle proving itself much larger than it looks - surely it must be dug deeply into the mountainside, to be so vast - then up a spiralling staircase, rough-bevelled with tool marks still showing wherever feet have not worn the steps smooth. This, too, seems higher than can even be possible in the castle Charles saw from the outside, climbing and turning until he is feeling it in his aching legs and wondering when they’ll ever reach their destination, past landing after landing, servants stepping aside into alcoves to let them pass.

“You’ll be staying in the best guest quarters until the wedding,” Captain Logan says when they finally reach the top of the stairs, and does not turn, just continues off down this new, wider corridor, chain mail clanking as they go. “The Duke is on the same floor, other end of the castle. ‘Spect your own guards will bring up your bags.”

If the Duke lives up here on the top floor, Charles thinks, he must either never come down or have magnificent thighs.

“You’re very kind,” is what he says instead, earning him a sardonic glance from the Captain even as he finally stops outside a plain wooden door and rummages in his belt pouch for a moment before producing a key.

“Here,” Captain Logan says, handing it over unceremoniously, then before Charles can even thank him the man strides away, leaving him stood in the corridor alone, with no idea where he is or where any of his belongings, servants or minders are.

“Start as I mean to go on, I suppose,” Charles murmurs to himself, and unlocks the door.

 

~*~

 

Later, while one of the maids is helping him wash his hair in the - admittedly impressive and very pleasant - heated bathtub that Charles found in his suite, Charles decides on his next few points of action, tipping his head back so that Margrét can rinse the suds from his forelock without getting them in his eyes.

Firstly, he must continue to appear to be as bland as possible for the time being, so that he is allowed to do as he likes; nobody is too worried about policing a quiet ghost of a husband, after all, and the one benefit of being so far from the rest of civilisation is that the Northerners are well known for not standing on courtly propriety. Charles won’t be expected to entertain a babble of local noble omegas unless he wants to, which he doesn’t. As well, the more isolated he keeps himself, the less likely he is to be outed as a telepath, which is to everyone’s benefit.

Secondly, Cain can’t be allowed to talk to anyone important before Charles does, for the sake of not being tarred with the same brush if nothing else.

And thirdly - Charles needs to make sure that Duke Erik is interested enough to still want to marry him without being so interested that he actually wants Charles to be more affectionate towards him than Charles is willing to be. It’s all very well alphas convincing themselves that all omegas will fawn at their feet given enough table scraps, but the fact is that Charles has been purchased for a brood mare, whether or not the Duke thinks of it that way.

So: Charles will be charming, empty-headed and agreeable enough to keep around, dress well for dinner and maintain his manners, and in time he will get to know the castle and its people well enough to know who can be trusted to help him with his own plans. Being three thousand miles from the centre of civilisation is far enough to put a considerable delay on Charles’ involvement in the back corridors of power in the kingdom, but not far enough that marrying the second most powerful man in that kingdom doesn’t boost his position.

One way or another, one day Raven will be Queen. And the first step towards that day is dinner. Charles adjusts his best cravat in the mirror and smiles his best empty smile, and then allows the servant waiting in the corridor to guide him downstairs to meet his husband-to-be.

 

~*~

 

_Erik_

The heat of the geothermal water flowing through the ancient copper pipes seeps up through the stone floor and the leather soles of Erik’s boots, infusing his skin with warmth and the memory of metal. He’s been standing here for almost ten minutes now, attending to the sense of silver being laid out by the footmen in the dining room. He always found it next to impossible to clear his mind in the traditional sense, so he tries to focus on simple things instead. The silver, and the pipes.

If he doesn’t, he knows his thoughts will be tangled up entirely with issues of the skirmishes on the eastern front, the delayed import of perishables from the southwestern Duchies. And - as always - the Frjálsmen.

The last piece of silver is set, and Erik tracks the footmen by the buttons on their coats as they step back into place along the walls, transformed into silent shadows. His power swells, extending past the dining room, through the stone halls and bleeding into the neighbouring chambers until he finds what he seeks: the glow of a servant’s keyring, and the golden adornments of his new omega warm against flesh and silk. He requested a private dinner with his omega this evening, ignoring the Southerners who insisted that the boy’s brother be permitted to accompany him as escort. Erik wants to form his own opinion, without being unwittingly influenced by his impressions of anyone else. Time enough later to make judgments on the kind of company his husband keeps.

Erik was thirty before he realised that he ought to consider marriage, for the purposes of having an heir if nothing else. He was thirty-one before he could compel himself to actually begin the process. Now, a year later, the betrothal is finalised and Earl Charles Xavier of Salem is here in Ironhold to become his husband. Erik doesn’t relish the idea of sharing his life with someone else so intimately; he’d tried to insist upon a separate room for the omega, but Janos wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently the political implications would be … less than ideal, which Janos cares about even if Erik doesn’t. No matter. Erik will not be home often anyway, at least not for the next several years. As long as he can impregnate Xavier promptly, the most important matter will be done with.

He waits until after he is sure that Charles has been led into the dining room and seated - and then one minute past - before he nods to his footmen. The men step forward and open the doors, bowing their heads as Erik passes, trailed by two of his most loyal Hands. 

Xavier stands at the far end of the hall, hovering behind the chair at the foot of the table. The manservant is gone; it’s just Erik’s footmen now. (Or rather, two footmen; the rest are Hands who have abandoned their cloaks and masks in exchange for the anonymity of footmen’s uniforms, their faces blank and unmemorable. Omega or not, Erik does not take chances with foreign Southerners in his own keep). 

Xavier looks younger than he did in his portrait, Erik thinks. There’s a naïveté to his visage that had not been captured by brush and ink; a sullenness to the set of his mouth, perhaps. An attractive mouth - or it would be, if Xavier ever bothered to wear a different expression. Erik frowns slightly, looking the boy up and down. Stocky, but with wide hips: good for bearing children. Average height for a male omega. Healthy hair and complexion; though imperfections can be hidden with cosmetics, Erik thinks he would sense the lead paint from here were Xavier wearing any. 

Erik waits until he is settled in his own chair, both uniformed Hands lurking behind him silently, before he gestures toward Xavier and says: “Sit.”

Xavier obeys, but only after the footman has slid his chair out for him. Good breeding, Erik supposes the Southerners would say. Personally, he doesn’t care for men who can’t look after their own interests. Not that he needs to care for his omega, per se. If the boy is as obedient as the Markos assured him he was, then Erik doubts he will fail to live up to Erik’s own particular expectations.

“I trust your journey was uneventful,” Erik says, unfolding his cloth napkin and laying it across his lap.

“Very comfortable, your Grace,” Xavier says, ducking his head. “Thank you.”

Erik manages not to arch a brow, already faintly irritated. Southern omegas are always so … _subservient._ Not much to do for that, of course; it’s instilled in them from birth. He’s certain Xavier has a personality underneath all the dressings, but he isn’t interested enough to put in the effort to peel back the layers. He can’t afford the distraction.

The footmen serve the first - and only - course and Erik picks up his fork, taking a bite of his roast lamb, effectively giving Xavier permission to begin eating his own meal. “I expect our Northern food will be very different from what you’re used to,” Erik says, setting his fork back down. “I hope you will become accustomed to it. It’s expensive to import delicacies from the South.” 

Xavier swallows a bite of his own and smiles softly. “It’s delicious, sir. What kind of meat is it?”

“Lamb. The accompaniments are mashed rutabaga with butter and a salad of cabbage. It is not our tradition to have more than one course at our meals, though if you are still hungry after, the store has a variety of cured fish and poultries which can be brought to your room.” Erik takes a sip of his burning-wine. “Be careful with the drink,” he warns. “It’s stronger than what you’re used to.”

Xavier reaches for his glass and brings it to his mouth, visibly hesitating before he drinks. A split second later he sets the glass down too hard, coughing violently, his cheeks flushed scarlet. “Beg pardon,” he says, once he’s caught his breath. “What - ” cough “ - what’s in this?”

“It’s a root fermentation schnapps,” Erik says, hiding his smirk with another swallow of his own wine. “Flavoured with caraway, cumin, and angelica. We call it ‘black death.’” 

“I can see why,” Xavier says, pushing his glass away. “An acquired taste, I imagine.”

“You’ll learn to appreciate it when winter sets in,” Erik says, swirling his drink around in his cup before setting it down, himself. “It will keep you warm when nothing else will. We take several casks on military expeditions.”

They fall into silence for a few minutes; the meat has to be eaten quickly, before it chills. “I trust Logan welcomed you appropriately,” Erik says, swallowing the last bite of lamb and dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. 

“Oh,” Xavier says, glancing up from his food, as if surprised to find Erik talking to him again. “Yes. Well - ” A brief pause. “Yes. He’s very … he’s an unusual man.” Xavier seems to be struggling a bit for words.

“How so?”

“I just mean,” Xavier says, pulling himself together somewhat, “that I had hoped you would be the one to greet me, sir.” 

“I was busy,” Erik says, waving his hand for a footman to take his plate away. “I understand that where you come from, one expects to be greeted by the steward, if not the ruling Duke. Logan is Captain of the Guard. Believe me that it is a greater honour to be greeted by him than by Janos.”

“Is it? I didn’t know.”

Erik lifts a brow. “You aren’t in the Southern kingdom anymore. We do not stand on courtesy here. We do not think much of aristocrats and their delicate fancies. We are a war-state. We care about strength and our own survival. That is difficult enough without bringing politics into play.”

Xavier reaches for his burning-wine and takes another sip, glancing just briefly at Erik over the rim of his glass. Erik wipes his expression quickly neutral. Had Xavier left the drink alone, as he seemed to intend earlier, perhaps Erik would have fallen completely for this act of his. But whatever Xavier might be saying with his mouth, he’s betrayed himself in action. No flimsy flower feels the need to push past his own discomforts so quickly or so boldly. Whatever Xavier might want Erik to think of him, his waters run deeper than he lets show.

Xavier’s face is still red when he puts the drink down, but at least he doesn’t cough this time. 

“What do you think of Ironhold so far?” Erik asks, falling back on the shallow questions he’d prepared for dinner. Even if Erik despises small conversation, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t see its utility in some cases.

“It’s fascinating,” Xavier says, folding his hands together atop the table and leaning forward slightly. “The way the fortress is built into the rock - it’s like nothing I’ve seen before. I could scarcely tell where the castle ended and the mountain began. And you have somehow managed to heat the indoors. How?”

“The ancients built this keep,” Erik says. “I merely expanded upon it. There is a hot spring in the mountain; it surfaces at the summit. The builders designed the fortress with pipes running down from the top, carrying the hot water down through the core of the structure. Smaller pipes branch out at each level and run beneath the floors of the rooms and halls. The same system provides hot water for the kitchen and baths. When you turn on your faucet it activates a series of levers which redirect water from the pipes.” Automatically, speaking of the system has Erik’s power fixated on it once more, curling round the metal far beneath their feet almost lovingly. “You’d be surprised how infrequently we have to run the water to keep the place warm. The stones hold onto heat for quite a while.”

“The entrance hall I came through,” Xavier says. “It’s a shame that such a large and magnificent room goes apparently unused.”

Something tightens in Erik’s chest, and he works to keep it from showing in his voice. “A remnant of the original structure,” Erik says. “We’ve not found a practical purpose for it. We have other rooms for entertaining guests.” 

Logan should never have brought a _heiðnir_ into that place. There is an alternate entrance designed precisely for the purpose of entering guests. No matter how esteemed Logan may consider Erik’s future husband to be, he had no right to do that. None. The anger bubbles up hot and filthy in Erik’s gut and he is glad his hands are in his lap, where Xavier cannot see his knuckles blanch as they curl into fists around his napkin. The very thought of Xavier standing in that place, polluting it with his presence, makes Erik want to be sick.

“I can’t imagine the other rooms are as grand as that one,” Xavier goes on. “It truly is a feat of ancient architecture, if it is as old as you say. It’s hard to imagine the barbarians having the technology to build something like that, never mind the kind of heating system you describe.”

“It is a failing of our modern race,” Erik says, tone slightly colder than he intends it to be, “that we so often dismiss the achievements of those we deem to be more primitive than ourselves.”

Xavier blinks, several times, apparently taken aback. “Have I said something to offend, sir?”

“No,” Erik says firmly. “Of course not.” He finishes off his burning-wine and hands the glass to a footman. “Please, tell me if there is anything you will need to make your stay here more comfortable.”

Xavier smiles again, that false empty smile he’s been wearing all evening. “Nothing comes immediately to mind,” he says. “I don’t doubt your ability to provide for me.”

Undoubtedly, Erik thinks, Xavier believes reassuring Erik of his prowess as an alpha is the way to his heart.

“It would be lovely if I might be allowed access to your library,” Xavier says, letting his own plate be taken away.

“Of course. The third floor, in the north wing. Your manservant, Gunnar, will show you.” Erik pushes back his chair and stands. The footmen and Hands along the wall immediately stiffen to attention. “I have a council meeting I must attend. Feel free to explore the keep, and tell a servant if you need anything.”

“And if I need _you,_ your Grace?”

Erik is slightly caught off guard - not that he should be, he reminds himself. Not after the burning-wine. But Xavier’s face is still schooled into the perfect picture of innocence. If there is any salacious intent behind the words, it doesn’t show. His eyes catch the candlelight now that he is looking directly at Erik, and are suddenly very blue for the moment before he looks back down at his lap demurely.

“Janos or Logan are my proxies,” Erik says, a beat too late. “If it is urgent, you may send a message to me via servant.” He bows at the waist, formal. “Good evening, Xavier.”

He goes before Xavier can respond again, thoughts already turning away from his omega and toward the council and other, more bellicose, objectives.

 

~*~

 


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done to everyone who guessed correctly that Tah is writing Charles and Spicy is writing Erik. And double well done to black_betty, who was the first to guess right! We still owe you your ficlet, don't let us forget!

_Charles_

 

“It’s intolerable!” Cain snarls the next day, only barely keeping his voice down enough not to be overheard. His hands are fisted at his sides, every muscle of his blocky body popping with tension, and his small, piggy eyes have almost vanished into his face under his scowling brows as he escorts Charles on an exploratory walk around Ironhold’s long, high boundary wall. The air atop the wall is chill and full of the rustling sound of far-off snow settling in the mountains. Charles would have preferred to walk alone, but after being barred from dinner the night before Cain had insisted that he accompany Charles everywhere else - apparently for the sake of propriety, though Charles can easily sense that it’s more that Cain can assuage his bruised ego by still asserting his dominance over Charles, if nobody else.

“Disrespectful - rude - I should - ” Cain continues, and Charles sighs, tucking his hands deeper into the furred muff one of the servants had fetched him when he expressed his desire to go outside.

“Should what?” Charles asks, looking out over the rear wall at the countryside beyond the fortress, where the narrow pass between the rock opens out into a wide plateau - there are houses down there, and fields dotted with sheep like sprigs of cotton, and beyond them a winding road that leads deeper into the mountains, and Lehnsherr’s duchy. “Cain, he’s the _Iron Duke of Ironhold_. He has the largest standing army in the kingdom, if you don’t count the men the King levies from his nobles; he lives in a fortress that has only been taken the once in over nine hundred years, and he can control metal with his mind. Quite aside from the fact he’s a favourite of the king. Opposing his will in his own domain or offering any kind of insult, even in answer to insult, would be suicide.”

Cain’s scowl deepens; he hates it when Charles pushes back, but even more when he’s right. They fall silent for a moment as they pass two guards on watch, but once they’re out of earshot Cain says, “Father said I’m to keep you under constant watch to make sure you don’t spoil the Duke’s appetite before the main course.” His lip curls spitefully as he sneers. “Can’t do that if he’s not letting you have a proper escort, and besides, how am I to know he didn’t outrage you while I wasn’t there to look after the family honour?”

The barb hits home, and Charles stiffens, chin lifting indignantly before he can quash his immediate reaction; they turn the corner to walk into the shade between the fortress wall and the mountainside, the same grey rock rising on either side, and once he feels more composed Charles says, jaw clenching but voice neutral, cold, “We both know Lehnsherr is marrying me because he needs an heir, and political ties to the South. It’s in his best interests to wait until we’re wed, at which time he can fuck me legally and as often as he wants. It’s in my best interests to preserve my reputation so he doesn’t change his mind and send me back to Westchester with you. Since I’d rather die, be assured that you can rest easy.”

There is a moment of silence between them before Cain snorts, shaking his bullish head, but he has no quick response, and after a moment he dismisses Charles entirely, his thoughts and eyes turning instead to stare out at the sunlit sky ahead. It’s bright and clear as midday even this early in the morning up here in the North, their famous ‘midnight sun’ never setting even in the small hours. It’s disconcerting, exhausting and hard to get used to, and when Charles looked outside last night after dinner with the Duke he felt that he could see for miles and miles, like standing on the top of the world and looking down on it, everything small and insignificant and too far away to ever reach again. For a moment he had felt - weightless, free, even though he is only there to be tied down to a new yoke.

Even the memory is enough to make Charles feel - he doesn’t know how. So he puts it away and speeds his steps to reach the forward corner of the fortress wall, leaving Cain to follow more slowly. Charles stands and leans on one of the merlons and looks down at the bridge they crossed to get here; the thundering waterfall it crosses is still hammering away at it, terrifying and beautiful, and at any other time Charles would watch it with endless fascination for its stark beauty, but in his mind’s eye he sees Lehnsherr instead, the man he is to marry.

The Duke of Ironhold is severe and chilly-mannered, with a strong-boned, narrow-lipped face and fierce eyes. Charles is honest enough to admit that his future husband is handsome and well-formed, broad-shouldered and tall, with the body of someone who has spent his whole life fighting wars and winning them. At least their marriage bed will be easier for Charles to endure than he had feared. Mentally, however…

It was clear from even that brief dinner that Lehnsherr is as sharp of mind as he is of tongue, even if he didn’t say much of anything that wasn’t in response to Charles’ own calculatedly insipid conversation. Not, that is, that Charles was able to tell this from his thoughts, which is the most disturbing thing about Lehnsherr of all. Perhaps it’s a facet of the man’s Gift, but other than a sense of his presence Charles couldn’t read him.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine - it’s a most unwelcome discovery given that he’d expected to have his telepathy as a secret advantage over any new husband. Charles will have to be careful not to catch Lehnsherr’s attention, if he wants to work on his plans in peace.

“So what did you think of him, anyway?” Cain asks suddenly from behind him, and Charles startles, turning to meet his stepbrother’s eyes.

“Does it matter?”

Cain squints at him, like he’s trying to read Charles’ expression. “Answer the damn question.”

Charles shrugs, leaning back against the wall. “He has all his limbs and both eyes, and, as far as I could tell, all of his own teeth.”

Cain sneers. _I am very glad I am leaving you here_ , the crude bastard thinks to himself, and this time he walks off on his own, along the forward wall.

It’s a petty victory, but nonetheless Charles lets himself savour it for a moment before turning to follow, then pausing in surprise as he takes in the row of machines set at even intervals along the walkway. Each is taller than a man, with an even longer arm leant back over where the guards walk past, at an angle that makes them look almost like the gables of a roof; they’re carved out of some dark, treated wood, and beside each one there is a pile of rocks, ranging from the size of his fist to several times larger than his head. Charles has heard of catapults, of course, and seen pictures in his books, but he’s never seen one in the flesh, and so he finds himself wandering forward more closely after Cain despite his distaste for his stepbrother, curiosity animating his step.

“Fucking murderous,” Cain is muttering when Charles catches up to him beside the first catapult, but he’s running his hand along the wooden beams of the thing nonetheless, fascinated.

“Yes,” says a different voice, one Charles recognises - he flinches and immediately tries to clear the interest from his own face, but there’s no doubt Lehnsherr has already seen it while he was distracted. 

Now that Charles is paying attention Lehnsherr is a sharp, bright presence against the walls of Charles’ mind, the complex walls of his thoughts easily keeping Charles from simply peeking in. He is dressed simply today, in a plain shirt and coat in shades of grey, the cut pure working class but the fabric fine and soft; unlike Charles’ furs Lehnsherr is barely wrapped up at all, and the man gives Charles a pointed look, eyes equally cool, before turning back to Cain. His own posture is casual and easily dominant, no concern in him whatsoever about being so near another alpha, even one as freakishly large as Cain. “Ironhold is the most secure fortress in the known world. I have no intention of damaging that reputation by letting anyone planning mischief any nearer than catapult range.”

Cain withdraws his hand like a child caught with his fingers in the honey pot, and shuffles a little, uneasy; it’s clear from his thoughts and his face that he’s displeased with having to ask a man he dislikes when in other circumstances he might simply remove the information himself, but his own curiosity gets the better of him, and he asks, with a sour twist to his mouth, “What sort of distance do they make?”

“Far enough to take out the bridge and anyone on it,” Lehnsherr says, and gestures over the wall. “It’s a long way down to the bottom of the falls.” His mouth curls, wry, as though in some private joke. “They work very well to keep out the barbarians.”

It seems an odd thing to say, given that all the Snowlanders live to the north, and as well to be pleased by the thought of them when the night before Lehnsherr had been so vehemently annoyed at the very mention; Charles is distracted enough by wondering about this, and by considering the tactics of an assault, the angles and distances the catapults could reach, to realise he’s speaking aloud. By the time he does he’s already asked, “But what if they reach the gates?”, thoughtfully and without the smokescreen of idiocy he had hoped to use. He affects a bland smile, adding, “What if the enemy got past the catapults? Could they take the castle? I suppose we would have to flee to the plateau,” and sees Lehnsherr’s suspicion fade into dismissive amusement at the silly fretting of an omega.

“Then my archers would pepper them with arrows, or we would pour boiling oil on them from the walls,” he says, clasping his hands in the small of his back and straining the fabric of his tunic over his muscled shoulders. “Or I would simply take a bag of nails and fill them with holes myself. There’s no need to fear invasion, Xavier.”

Properly Lehnsherr ought to address Charles as ‘my Lord’ - even as a lower-ranked member of the nobility Charles is due that courtesy - but it is clear that Lehnsherr stands on no decorum other than his own, and as they are standing on Lehnsherr’s fortress walls beside Lehnsherr’s very large catapults, Charles just smiles again and says, “Of course, your Grace.”

“Hmm.” Lehnsherr looks at Charles for a long moment more, then turns to gaze out over his lands, the icy breeze ruffling his hair and leaving it waved and untidy, at contrast with his nature. The air seems to catch with his scent, suddenly, and Charles’ next inhale is shaky and filled with alpha, deep and resonant and oddly affecting. His heart has started beating like a drum in his chest, hard and fast. “Xavier, I have instructed my personal physician to examine you prior to the wedding, to ensure all is as it ought to be. He has set aside time for you this afternoon, so please attend him at your convenience. I trust this is acceptable?”

As if Charles has a choice - a rising bile in his throat wants him to say no, but he ignores the flush that has risen to his cheeks and nods instead. The public humiliation of being asked to make a visit to the physician to be checked out like a brood mare Lehnsherr is thinking of buying casts off the momentary spell of scent quite effectively. 

Clearly Cain does not understand the purpose of the visit, and he looks set to ask, but Charles shakes his head minutely and for once his stepbrother listens, closing his mouth again without flapping his gums.

“Very well,” Lehnsherr says, and pauses, looking at them both before finally saying, “Now, allow me to escort you down from the walls, Xavier, and back inside. The catapult walk is no place for an omega.”

“Of course,” Charles demurs, and if he can pretend his flush is more embarrassment instead of irritation, all to the better.

 

~*~

 

Thankfully Cain does not insist upon accompanying Charles any further than the door to the physician’s quarters, and so Charles is able to enter Doctor Austmann’s quarters with only the servant who showed them the way for an audience. She seems disinterested enough in why he’s there, though no doubt the fact he’s been will be all around the castle by the evening. It helps to have had so much practice keeping up a false front in public; no doubt Charles will need it to get through the examination without showing his indignation at the requirement. He knows full well what ‘everything being as it should be’ means, and just how invasive this is going to be.

The door opens onto a small sitting room with several well-made chairs set around a short table, with tapestries on the walls in lieu of windows; the servant woman gestures for Charles to sit in one of the cushioned chairs before vanishing through a door on the other side of the room, presumably to fetch the physician.

Charles stays on his feet, however, and goes to stand in front of one of the tapestries so he can at least appear to be studying it. Wishful thoughts of the family physician back in Westchester keep floating to the surface, but as he cannot have the doctor he is used to he distracts himself from contemplating the new one by thinking instead about the Snowlanders, and what he knows of them. They certainly seem to provoke odd reactions in Lehnsherr, ones he wishes he could read the thoughts behind. It’s to be expected, really - after all, the greatest threat to life out here on the borderlands of the kingdom is from the Snowlanders, barbarians who live out in the coldest reaches of the mountains and beyond, their villages so high up that nobody else can breathe there for long, the air thin and chill and dangerous to any but the natives.

Lehnsherr has probably spent his entire adult life fighting them off when they raid his lands - spent his childhood waiting for his father to return from fighting them, never knowing if he would return alive. Charles saw an illustration in a book once, and had been struck by the viciousness of it, the snarling rage as the alpha female raised her sword above her head, her teeth bared, body swaddled entirely in rough cloth against the bitter cold of a land that doesn’t allow for luxuries. Above all it had been the look in her illustrated eyes that had shaken him, a wildness that made Charles wonder how primitive men and women such as the Snowlanders could ever have built something so incredible as the Ironhold.

So no, no surprise that Lehnsherr should have strong feelings about the people who built his ancestral home and who regularly attack his people and steal his animals, gold, lands. Were it not for the Southern kings and their expansion to bring the rule of law, these lands would be ruled by savages still, and Lehnsherr himself either a Snowlander or never born at all.

Behind him there is a soft creak of hinges, and Charles turns as a young beta male enters the room from the inner door, followed by the servant, who bows to Charles before swiftly departing, leaving the two of them alone.

The young man swallows nervously, then sketches a hasty bow, his long limbs making the gesture gangling and ungraceful. “My Lord. If you would, uh, follow me, Doctor Austmann is, uh, waiting. At your leisure, that is.” The man - boy, really - has a nervous mind, but his voice carries strong accent of the south layered over his northern twang, welcome and familiar. Charles smiles, trying to be reassuring. “Thank you. Are you his assistant?”

The question seems to have disrupted the planned order of things; it earns Charles a blink, followed by a brief moment of hesitation before the boy says, “Um, yes, sir. I’m Hank, I’m the Doctor’s apprentice. Well, junior doctor, really, I trained at the collegium, but - ”

“Hank. Bring the Earl through, would you?” a new voice calls from the inner room, and Hank stammers to a stop before bowing again and turning to lead Charles into the doctor’s study.

Doctor Austmann gets up from his chair with the help of a stout stick and some slow deliberation, his knees evidently creaking with age, but once on his feet he seems healthy enough for a man of what must be sixty years if not more - his face is lined with age, his hair dark grey though still thick. As is common in physicians he too is a beta, his scent quiet and unassuming. 

“My Lord,” he says, looking Charles up and down already with clear, sharp eyes, his gaze piercing. “Welcome to Ironhold. I am the physician here, and the Duke has requested I take a look at you prior to the wedding. Now, I won’t beat around the bush, this will be an inspection of a personal kind. But no more personal than we’ll be when I’m delivering your children, and unless there’s much amiss I shan’t be giving his Grace any details he don’t need. Have you any objection to Hank staying? He could do with the experience and if you have as many babies as the local omegas are wont to it’ll be him delivering them in due time, so you might as well get used to each other.” _Looks sturdy enough,_ he’s thinking, the practicalities of childbearing foremost in his mind. _Good hips, should be able to bear mating and pregnancy well enough to carry a babe alive._

From anyone but the physician, Charles might be inclined to bristle at such familiarity from a stranger; given the nature of the relationship, however, it would be prudent to be friendly, and so he shakes his head, pressing a tight smile to his surface expression. “No objection, doctor. How shall we begin?”

“Take a seat.”

Once Charles is seated opposite him, and Hank has poured wine for them both, the old man folds his hands over his belly and says, “All right. How old are you, my Lord, to start?”

“Nineteen years this summer.”

“And you have had your first heat?”

If he were being himself, Charles would refuse to blush; as it is, he is playing up his youth and innocence, so he allows the heat of slight embarrassment to rise to the surface, colouring his cheeks. “Yes, winter before last. And twice since. On both occasions I remained in my rooms with my omega valet until it passed.”

Austmann nods, content with this answer. “No need for embarrassment, my Lord, it’s only natural. Any health issues I should know of, or any in the family? Are you Gifted at all?”

Charles smiles, and lies through his teeth. “No, not at all.” 

Very few would call telepathy a gift, given that in its very smallest degree it carries an instant sentence of death upon the possessor. 

He endures the rest of the examination - stripped down to his underthings, then to his skin, and probed with indifferent and not ungentle instruments - with as much dignity as one can possess when having one’s ass inspected to ensure one’s future husband can fuck you without having to trouble himself with another alpha’s prior presence, or with infertility. Proving to two strangers that he has developed fully and that his passages are open and able to slick is nothing, Charles tells himself, nothing compared to what he gains by submitting to this, and then to marriage to Lehnsherr.

Still, it rather removes any element of romance that might have remained - however slender a thread that might have been. When the examination is completed he dresses in silence, and returns to his rooms to await Lehnsherr’s verdict.

 

~*~

 

_Erik_

Falsenight falls and Erik leaves the keep, following the winding stone trail between the mountains, headed north. The sun sits just above the horizon, glimmering pale gold and causing the low trees to cast strange shadows on the path. The way is narrow, at times barely wide enough to allow the passage of even one man between tall stone cliffs, but Erik has always been thin and this way is his; it is the way of his people. He’s heard that the villagers call the path the barrow-road. They speak of spirits and gaunts that lurk in the darkest crevices, falling upon any unsuspecting travelers and fighting old wars against their flesh.

They’re not wrong. The path is haunted, but the vengeance the spirits seek is Erik’s birthright. The fierceness of warriors past, living on in stories passed from mother to child, stories that sing in freemen’s blood. Erik can hear them whispering in the ancient tongue, voices caught on the wind. He can feel the chill of their touch at the nape of his neck. 

The light summer snow begins to deepen, the further he goes into the mountains. Even the Falsenight sun seems barely sufficient to find one’s way, the black basalt absorbing all light - but to Erik, this path is familiar. The whispering intensifies, until it is impossible to feel alone anymore. Erik is escorted by his mother’s ancestors, their silver hands on his shoulders and back, guiding him on. 

The path begins to widen again after an hour’s walk. Light filters into the shadows and turns the icicles to sparkling amber. The ground beneath Erik’s feet is no longer the sooty mixture of black ash and snow, but the bluish glow of clean ice as he steps onto the ancient foot of the Fyrstjökull glacier.

It is as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders: a weight he hadn’t even known he was carrying. Here, the stain of the Southern kingdoms has never touched. The sky and air and earth are all clear and pure as glass. 

He closes his eyes and focuses on his breath, letting all else fall away until he can hear through the whispers of ghosts the soft fall of footsteps on the ice. 

“Erik, son of Eiðný. Peace be with you.”

“Peace be with you,” Erik echoes as he opens his eyes. Magda, Anja’s daughter, stands before him - not in the tight and functional clothes of a warrior but in her light blue Hvíldardagurinn dress, the finest she owns. The others are here too, standing at a distance, waiting. 

Magda smiles and reaches forth, taking both Erik’s hands in her own, squeezing gently. Were it not for the circumstances of Erik’s birth, perhaps Magda would have been Erik’s bride. They would marry here, on Fyrstjökull, under a canopy in their shared tradition. Not this heathen farce Erik will engage in with Xavier. 

“So,” Magda says after several moments, releasing Erik’s hands. “It is certain, then? You are to be wed.”

Erik nods. The physicians sent him their report on Xavier’s examination this morning. The servants have already begun preparations. “Tomorrow,” he says, using the Frjáls sense of days rather than that of the Southerners, with their fixation on daylight. “After next Falsenight.”

“Congratulations,” Magda says. Erik searches for a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but there is none. Magda has never been anything but sincere in all she says and does. He admires that about her.

“It is what it is,” Erik says carefully. He may not be entirely pleased, but heiðnir or no, he does not think the Frjálsmen would approve of anything less than total commitment on Erik’s part - or at least the pretense thereof.

Magda nods after a moment; Erik doesn’t doubt that she catches his meaning, though she says nothing of it. “Come,” she says. “The kennari is here. We are ready for you.”

She leads him up the shallow slope of the glacier to where the rest of his people are gathered. The kennari stands before the rest of them, his face half-shadowed by his veil. Erik meets his gaze just for a moment before he reaches to draw his own veil up over his head, the fabric thin and gauzy, soft like spider-silk.

Erik covers his eyes with his right hand and the kennari prays in the ancient tongue. Erik murmurs along under his breath, rocking on his heels and kissing the fringe of his veil when the Name is spoken. They pray for grace, for protection, for the restoration of the temples. They praise the G-d that most of them only half-believe in anymore. But G-d is not why they are here, and it is not what makes them Frjálsmen. That is blood. That is history.

“It is true,” the kennari says, to close the prayer. 

“It is true,” they all echo - even the wispy voices of the spirits, their hands still touching Erik’s skin and chilling him to the bone.

In silence they walk along the glacier to where it meets the mountain. The entrance to the cave is dark; Erik cannot see more than a foot in front of him. He touches the runes inscribed in the rock, kisses his fingertips, and enters first. The ceiling of the entrance is low enough that he has to bend almost in half to find passage. But inside … inside, everything is brilliant blue ice, bright as if lit by some internal star. The ice looks as if it is still in motion somehow, smooth and rippled like the water that flows in the shallow river which cuts its way through the cave floor.

The river widens near the center of the cave to form a pool; some time long ago, their ancestors cut steps into the ice leading down into the water. Erik stands at the edge and strips off all his clothing until he is bare and shivering. He keeps one hand on the wall as he takes the steps down into the pool of running water, knowing too well how easy it would be to slip and crack his head upon the ice.

The water is waist-deep once Erik is in it - and cold enough that he knows better than to linger. It would take less than a minute for that cold to seep into his marrow and still his heart. 

He dunks himself under the water three times, whispering a quick prayer after the third, and then pulls himself out. He’s shaking violently, but Magda is at his side in an instant, wrapping him in a wool cloak. The comfort is temporary - and he suspects he’ll be grateful for the cold soon enough. Icy water slides down the back of his neck, his soaked hair already beginning to frost over. 

“Summer marriages are a blessing, yes?” Magda murmurs in his ear, and Erik manages a laugh, though it’s as brittle as the rest of him. 

“You must not linger too long,” the kennari reminds him, baritone voice echoing low off the walls. “The dragon waits for you.”

Even with that warning, Erik has to force himself to relinquish the warmth of the cloak back into Magda’s arms. The cold air hits his skin like a fresh wind and he’s shivering once more as he steps forward, skirting the pool and taking the narrow blue path along its edge, toward the darkest recesses of the cave, where even the ice forgets to give off light.

He would never admit it if asked, but he is not only shaking because of the cold.

Erik kneels at the edge of the shadows, knees and hands pressed against the hard ice and his head bowed, exposing the vulnerable back of his neck, and waits. For a long while, all he can hear is the sound of water and his chattering teeth, no matter how he strains his ears. But then … then, at last, the rustle of something deep inside the cavernous recess and the scrape of claws against ice. Erik sucks in several gasping breaths and starts whispering the ancient prayer under his breath again. Habit, any time he fears he may be about to die. These should always be his last words.

He feels the heat of breath on his bare skin but he dares not look up. Even like this, bowing before the dragon, he can still see the black gleam of its scales and the obsidian curve of its claws. If the dragon does not bless him, if it does not bless his marriage - well, the most euphemistic way to think of it is that at least Erik will not have to worry about Shaw any longer.

His heart thuds faster than it ever has in battle, the sound of it flooding his ears. He was right; he’s already forgotten the cold. All he feels now are the coals in the dragon’s belly, feeding the heat of its breath. The burn of fear under his own skin. He falters over the words of his prayer, stumbling over syllables he’s spoken every day since he learned to speak. The dragon snorts and he nearly loses balance from the force of it. 

The dragon sees this. Feels it. Senses it, as if it lives inside Erik’s mind alongside Erik himself. It is watching him carefully, calculating his every turn of emotion and thought with an intelligence fiercer than that of any living being in the known world. 

Erik knows he must focus. He must bring himself to center, and balance all the parts of him which have spun off their axes. It is a skill which comes easily enough in war but evades him now. On some intellectual level, he knows this is the point: that the dragon does not threaten with its fire alone, but with its ability to twist minds into terror. If Erik can accept the fear, that it both is and is-not his own - that it is natural and unnatural all at the same time - if he can accept his own vulnerability before the dragon but still find strength in that weakness - then perhaps he will be allowed to live.

The dragons are and always have been his people’s greatest allies, but before now, Erik has never seen one up close. No one does, not before they are ready. Usually readiness comes with great spiritual enlightenment alone. Only those the dragons deem their equals are given the chance to live at their sides, to ride them or stand in the flame of their fire without being burned. The only reason Erik is here today, to receive blessing for his marriage from a dragon, is because he is the King-That-Is-And-Must-Be. He is heir to a kingdom that no longer exists except in the hearts and minds of its people. 

Erik lets himself sink deep into the soul of his fear, letting that horrible panic rattle through him until he has no more energy to spend on it. Even so, it feels like hours before he finds some kind of equilibrium, floating like a small boat in a stormy sea - afraid, but not of being so.

The dragon snorts again and Erik feels its snout bump up against the crown of his head. Relief floods through him all at once, flushing out any other possible emotion as he lifts his head and meets the dragon’s pale blue gaze. He never … the beauty of the creature is not lost on him. For a moment he forgets to breathe at all, enraptured by the coldness in those irises, the contrast with the fire in its slitted pupils. It is several heartbeats before the dragon snuffs once more, and turns, vanishing back into the heavy shadows of its home.

Erik rises slowly, his legs still weak beneath him and numb enough that he’s not sure he can even feel his toes. He had hoped …. Never mind, he tells himself. Enough that his marriage is blessed. Enough that he lived. What use is it, to regret that he was not blessed as the dragon’s equal, as well?

He turns around to face his people and smiles, raising his arms above his head, letting himself drown in the roar of their voices singing.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fantasy version of anti-Semitism.

_Charles_

The few souls brave or foolhardy or politically-minded enough to make the journey north started arriving the day Charles had his medical inspection; apparently a small avalanche had wiped out the road somewhere behind Charles’ party as they’d made their way here, and it had taken some time to be cleared. As a result the guests had arrived more or less en masse, carriages and carts and all manner of riders, and now on the day of Charles’ wedding the Ironfort is full to bursting. He can hear their thoughts like the clattering claws of a pack of hounds pounding against stone as they race through the corridors, loud and riotous and, worst of all, speculative.

After all, Charles is the omega son of a duke and is marrying a duke, and yet his stepfather and mother did not even bother to attend, sending his stepbrother instead as his only escort. Only the old blood of the Xavier name running in his veins is keeping him respectable.

Cain turns away from the window with a huff of frustrated boredom that’s echoed in his thoughts, like a breath against the back of Charles’ neck; without turning Charles says, “You can go elsewhere, you know. Nobody is going to assault me while Margrét helps me finish dressing.”

Another huff, this time derisive. Cain meets Charles’ eyes in the mirror that stands on the dresser, ignoring the servant as she adjusts the folds of Charles’ cloak around his shoulders, making sure they fall evenly. “This close to getting you off my hands? Not likely. I’m making sure you’re cleanly handed over to Lehnsherr, not carted off at the last minute by some marauding half-dick Snowlander. Then again, prissy bastard like you might like that - way they cut it off, you’d barely notice your conjugal duties. You could go do your reading while the barbarian tupped you, providing he provided you with books.”

“What?” Charles turns despite himself, eyebrows rising even as he gets jabbed with a gold pin for his pains. “What on earth are you talking about now?”

Cain smirks, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Snowlanders cut off half their men’s dicks for sacrifices to their God, didn’t you even know that? So much for book learning. In any case, I figure you’d like that, since you’re so fucked off about having to take a dick in the first place.”

It’s hard to decide whether to be more disgusted and pained at the thought of the religious practice - Charles can’t help but cross his legs, ugh, even as he tries to imagine what that might look like - or disgusted by Cain’s filthy thoughts behind it all, which are graphic and do not involve Snowlanders at all, but his own vile daydreams about fucking Charles himself. There are many things he would like to say or do to Cain, but he can act on none of them in front of Margrét, and so Charles squeezes his lips tightly together to keep from responding and turns back to the mirror, inspecting his own face and clothes, focusing on that instead. Soon enough he will be rid of Cain forever, though with Lehnsherr still an unknown quantity, whether or not Charles’ new situation will be an improvement is yet to be seen. 

“There,” Margrét says quietly, her mouth close to Charles’ ear as she fastens the final clasp around his throat. “Lovely.”

The cloak sits high-collared around his neck, her hands on his shoulders hardly adding to the weight of the heavy, midnight-blue fabric with its silver embroidery and white fur edging. It drapes in elegant sweeps to either side of his body, exposing the fine white shirt, dove-grey waistcoat and grey breeches he wears underneath, the mother-of-pearl buttons gleaming in the false daylight coming in from outside, from the evening sun that never sets here. Charles has been washed and brushed and shaved and tamed down into this perfect omega he sees in the mirror, the inkstains scrubbed from his fingertips and everything about him that is not quiet and socially acceptable hidden away.

“All right,” Charles says, and reaches up to squeeze her hand briefly, the twitch of an anxious smile the best he can summon, and, for once, entirely honest. “I’m ready.”

~*~

In the morning before anything else, on Lehnsherr’s orders - as though he wouldn’t do so himself! - Charles had bathed in the geothermal baths in the basement of the fortress, his clothing left in an alcove near the entrance. He was, for the first time in a very long time, left entirely alone; the pillared room had been full of steam, his vision blurred and softened by the mist even as he stepped down into the tiled pool of hot, milky blue water. There was a bench seat around the edge to sit on, but the water was so full of minerals that Charles found himself floating on his back despite himself, weightless and cradled. He had stared up at the rough-hewn ceiling, still marked by the toolmarks of those who hollowed this moss-streaked grotto out below the mountain, and felt almost as though he were in a cave, long ago, before the kingdom reached this far north - when the Ironfort still belonged to the Snowlanders.

He held his breath and forced himself under the surface, fully submerging himself and feeling the water swallow him up, soaking through every strand of his hair and caressing every part of his body, silky and hot; making him clean and pure for his wedding, to be given over to an alpha and to be made dirty. It was, perhaps, the last time Charles would ever be solely his own, and when he burst up from under the surface to take a breath he couldn’t help but gasp for air, but all he found instead was steam.

~*~

There is singing, even before Charles reaches the doors of the Godshall; a chorus of voices in harmony singing the traditional processional, entreating the Gods to bless this union, to make it fruitful and happy and long-lived. With Cain at his left shoulder and Margrét in place of an omega-in-waiting just behind him to his right there is nowhere for Charles to turn away, only the path ahead and the great creak of the tall wooden doors, at least ten feet high, swinging open on cue before him.

Charles raises his chin, stiffens his legs, squares his shoulders, and walks forward before Cain can take his elbow to push him.  
Inside the hall is full of people - some he knows, some he doesn’t - crowding either side around the central aisle - surely they don’t need to stand so claustrophobically close? - and the singers’ voices are echoing in the long high ceiling rafters, filling the immense space from the musician’s balcony overhead with ringing music that reverberates in the stone. The air is full of the scent of flowers, and Gods alone know where the Northerners found hothouse blossoms like these in their climate, and why indeed they’re holding the ceremony in this smaller Godshall at the very furthest end of the fort instead of in the grand chamber at the entrance to the fortress -

Charles catches himself getting sidetracked by anxiety and forces himself to focus, to be in control. He is getting married. He has planned for this. It’s an _integral part_ of the plan, despite Lehnsherr's resistance to telepathy. The long hem of his midnight cloak is spread along the carpet behind him in a long train, Westchester colours and symbols laid out for everyone to see, and he has to match, to be as dignified and noble-blooded as he can be, to earn respect that he can turn into political capital.

The singing reaches a crescendo, and Charles realises with a start that he has reached the foot of the stairs at the front of the hall, and that he is standing directly before Lehnsherr and the priest, both of whom are looking down at him expectantly, the priest a female alpha in long black robes, and Lehnsherr -

Lehnsherr looks very handsome, in a fine velvet doublet of green and charcoal grey, groomed and stern, nothing of softness or of nerves in his eyes or the strong firm line of his mouth, his own cloak made of rich green wool but cut in a martial rather than marital style, hanging from his broad shoulders more like the wings of a crow than an offering for his spouse. He looks at Charles with that same assessing, measuring gaze that seems designed to make Charles feel hot and trembling inside, and Charles cannot help but let his lips part to take a shaky breath in, then, with an effort of will, pull defiance around himself to ward it off.

There is a moment where Charles can tell Lehnsherr has seen it - the corners of his eyes tighten in some silent response that Charles can’t read - before he descends the stairs, boots thudding on the hard stone, and reaches to take Charles’ slack hand in his own to take him away from Cain and up towards the priest.

“You may cloak your omega, and take him under your protection,” the priest says when they reach the top of the steps, turning to Lehnsherr. Her voice comes just as the singers fall silent, the echoes dying out all at once, perfectly on cue.

Charles turns to Lehnsherr, who looks - he looks as though he _hates_ Charles, grey eyes burning into him even as Lehnsherr’s steady fingers reach for the clasp at Charles’ throat and flick it open without even touching it. The force of his Gift pushes the fabric away from Charles’ shoulders by the metal fastening so that the blue velvet slips away down his back to pool at his feet, and before Charles even has time to feel cold, Lehnsherr has already unfastened his own cloak and swept it from his own back to wrap around Charles. It smells like wool, and woodsmoke, and the deep spicy musk of alpha. The high neckband of it closes around Charles’ throat like a collar, encasing him in Lehnsherr’s scent, and Charles feels shaky, his breath catching in his lungs as Lehnsherr’s heavy hands fall on his shoulders and hold it there, as though he might shrug it off.

“Your Grace,” the priest says, her voice cutting through that strange, long moment like a knife, “my Lord, my lords and ladies, we stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of Alpha and Omega. One flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever. Do any here object to this union?”

Charles can feel Lehnsherr’s hands tighten on his shoulders, one hard squeeze - a warning to behave, perhaps? - before Lehnsherr turns to face forward, and the ceremony moves on.

The prayers and vows pass too quickly; despite ensuring he keeps a measured, dignified tone throughout as he verbally accepts Lehnsherr’s lordship over him and offers his own loyalty and steadfastness, it seems little more than a blink before the priest is wrapping their wrists with a red cord, tying them together palm-to-palm and then lifting their joined hands in hers to show the congregation. The cheer that ensues is louder than Charles expected, and only the fact that Lehnsherr chooses that moment to curl his fingers through Charles’, clasping his hand tightly, keeps him from flinching, too startled to do anything but stare up at his new husband - who is looking back at him with a steady, cold gaze and no smile at all.

Lehnsherr - Charles supposes he should try and think of him as _Erik_ , since he is a Lehnsherr now, too - leads when they descend the steps into the crowd, and it seems to break some kind of restraint, because all of a sudden the narrow aisle is full of people wishing them well, cheering and slapping their backs and whistling, loud and too close. Charles smiles as best he can and keeps his eyes lowered demurely as Lehnsherr forges ahead, all but dragging Charles by the hand through their guests and towards the doors leading to the great hall proper; he doesn’t seem interested in pausing for congratulations. His grip on Charles is tight, but the marriage cord still bites into Charles’ skin.

The great hall is decorated in the same fashion as the Godshouse, all flowers and candles, and just as deep within the mountain, without natural light. The tables are all laid out in splendour for the wedding, the plates and goblets almost swallowed up by the sheer quantity of food covering every surface and making the wood groan with the weight. It must have been put out while they were giving their vows, because the meat is still steaming on the platters as Charles hurries to keep up with Lehn- _Erik’s_ long legs as they stride to the front of the hall and the head table.

Erik seems to remember that he has Charles tied to his wrist only when they have rounded the table and come to their seats in the middle. He pauses, then, and Charles isn’t sure what to expect from the man who now owns Charles, body and immortal soul. But all Erik says is, “Sit,” then pulls out Charles’ chair for him, stepping aside to make room for Charles to sit down.

Charles keeps his eyes low and a neutral smile on his face as he takes his seat, carefully keeping his hand raised so as not to tug on the cord. “Thank you.”

The guests are pouring in after them now, most heading directly for the tables and wasting no time in sitting down before the feast - but it’s only when Erik, still standing, calls out in a wry, amused voice, “You are all welcome at our table, now please, eat before this all goes cold!” that they fall upon the food with cheerful abandon, laughter and shouting almost drowning out the music that has started up in the background, merry fiddles and flutes picking out something lively that matches the rapid staccato of Charles’ heartbeat in his chest, because Erik has set his bound hand on Charles’ leg, just above the knee, not squeezing it but just resting, heavy and proprietary as though he has every right, which, of course, now he does.

“Wine?” Erik asks, and Charles says, swallowing down his own feelings, “Yes, thank you, husband.”

~*~

_Erik_

Erik thought he was grateful to be leaving when they’d finally stayed at the dinner long enough to justify excusing themselves for the evening, if only to get away from the crowds of Southerners and the way he could barely swallow a bite of his food before yet another well-wisher was up at the main table, making demands upon him to speak. The gravlax was delicious - or it would have been, Erik’s sure, had he had a chance to enjoy it.

But now, having escorted Charles up the many flights of stairs to his rooms - _their_ rooms now, he corrects - he almost wishes he were back in the feasting hall. 

The servants have been in Erik’s suite while everyone was downstairs, at the ceremony and the feast afterward; someone has taken the liberty of lighting a thousand candles and pulling the drapes over the windows, giving the room the effect of true-night. Erik finds himself counting the candles on the tables and shelves - surely he never had so many? he only recognizes the tapers - but of course he’s only stalling. Identifying whether the sappy, resinous scent in the air is frankincense or pine only serves to prolong the inevitable. They’ve had their farce of a wedding; now follows the consummation thereof, which no matter which way Erik spins it, can’t be envisioned as anything but the base and carnal act that it is. 

It’s not that Xavier is unattractive. Saying so would be an entirely new level of denial, even for Erik. It’s not even that Erik doesn’t _want_ him. He’d happily take him to bed if it were just for a night and he could rest assured that when he woke, no one would be there sleeping at his side. He’s had Southerners before. Having them for a few hours and having them for life, he finds, are very different prospects. Thinking of Xavier as beautiful feels wrong somehow, as if he’s betraying his people simply by acknowledging the fact. He’d grown up with the tacit assumption that his soulmate would be Frjáls simply because alternative options seemed ludicrous. Because his mother told him he would inherit the Frjáls throne when she died, and a Frjáls king should wed one of his own kind. But that was when he was young. Young enough that politics were a strange and distant concept, something boring men waffled over while the clever ones just went out and killed anyone who stood in their way.

As an adult, Erik still thinks politics isn’t much more than boring waffling, but his plans involve certain territorial schemas, and said schemas don’t exist, he’s been told, outside of certain types of alliances. Alliances involving marriage. Alliances to the South, however superficial, involving marriage and thus involving Southern _omegas_. These foreign, barbaric creatures raised like dolls in isolation, so unlike anything or anyone he knows that they may as well be as soulless as faeries for all that Erik can understand them. He had expected the kennari to reject the notion as heresy the moment he mentioned it. But as it turns out, the dragons predicted something like this might be necessary long ago, before Erik himself was even old enough to be thinking of such things.

The only way he was able to get through that pretense of a wedding ceremony was by reminding himself over and over that what he did, he did for his people. For the generations of Frjálsmen who were systematically slaughtered under Shaw’s rule before Erik’s Southern father died and Erik took power in the North. Funny, how saving his people seems to necessitate the inclusion of a Southern pawn. Erik hasn’t decided yet if the fact is gruesome or strikingly apropos.

Even so, he finds himself thinking - if only he didn’t need the alliance. If only it were Magda with her wrist bound to his, smiling slyly and pulling him into the dark. A union his mother would have been proud of. He tries to imagine Eiðný meeting him and Xavier outside his bedchambers and kissing her new son-in-law on both cheeks, beaming with happiness and wishing them good fortune. It’s so laughably unlikely that Erik can’t even hold the image in his mind for longer than a half-second. No: surely, if Eiðný were alive, she would be in the temple weeping and praying for her son’s soul - that the wisdom of the dragons has not failed them. That this attempt to salvage their nation does not spit in the eye of G-d.

Xavier is still standing at his side, eyes modestly lowered and his hair falling across his face, still holding his hand up where it’s tied to Erik’s. How long have they been like this? It could have been a second. An hour. Erik doesn’t know. Without the open window and the sun to guide him, there’s nothing here but endless night.

Erik turns toward Xavier and starts picking apart the knot in the red cord; a few seconds later the silk loosens and slips between their wrists. Erik catches it before it can hit the floor and holds it out toward his husband: an offering. It will mean more to Xavier, this relic of their pagan rite, than it ever could to Erik.

“Thank you,” Xavier says quietly, and coils it around his palm, closing his fingers around it like it’s something precious. 

“You’re welcome,” Erik says. His voice sounds strange. Or maybe it’s the words themselves - the formality of them. Either way, they aren’t here for conversation. Erik presses his lips tight together, fighting the bizarre urge to strike up some kind of small talk, as if they could discuss sheep-rearing all the way through ‘til morning.

Xavier still isn’t looking at him, which is frustrating. Erik’s seen enough of the boy over these past few days to know there’s more to him than the demure omega princess act he’s been trying to play off, but Erik finds he isn’t too terribly interested in peeling back the layers to bask in the depths of Xavier’s opinions on petty Southern political matters or classic literature. My, how riveting their marital conversations are sure to be.

“Where would you like me?” Xavier asks then, without raising his voice, as he slips the marriage cord into the pocket of his breeches.

Right. Erik’s been thinking himself in circles, but trust the heathen mind to always drag them back to the topic at hand. Where and how would Erik like to fuck the virgin tonight? Erik is certain Xavier has heard it from everyone - his mother, his servants, his omegas-in-waiting - how beautiful it is, to lie with one’s husband for the first time. How utterly transcendent - how _sacred_ before his pagan gods. But Xavier is clever enough to know better than that. He’s clever enough to be afraid, though he hides it well.

Well, Erik thinks. _Fuck_ that. Yes, it may hurt, there’s no getting around that, but Erik isn’t hell-bent on punishing Xavier for this situation, undesirable though it may be. Even Xavier may view this as something of a political transaction, and while he wouldn’t be wrong, Erik likes to think that he knows how to handle an omega in bed. And although Xavier can’t possibly understand the full ramifications of what it means, for him to be standing here in Erik’s cloak, smelling like Erik’s property, with the blessing of Shaw’s empire and the dragons behind their union, that doesn’t make him any brand of romantic idiot. He fears Erik the same way any half-intelligent omega would fear his new alpha. They know nothing about each other, after all; for all Xavier knows, Erik intends to beat him and fuck him eight ways from Sunday. Being married off to Erik in particular, to live on the distant northern border he’s been raised to fear, cannot be a particularly pleasant notion either. As painful as this marriage has been - is - for Erik, his new husband still shares some part of that, even if he will never understand everything it means.

“Relax,” Erik finds himself saying, his power getting to the clasp of his cloak around Xavier’s neck before his fingers do, though he at least pretends to be using his hands to sweep it from Xavier’s shoulders and set it aside over the back of an armchair. 

He places two fingers beneath Xavier’s chin and makes a point of tilting Xavier’s face up toward him. Erik can smell Xavier’s anxiety now, laced like a seam of iron through his pheromones. But whatever Xavier might be feeling, Erik wants to _see_ it. Xavier wasn’t playing shy before, and Erik won’t have him starting now. “What sort of savagery are you expecting?”

Xavier tries to keep his expression neutral, but there’s a quaver in the swell of his lower lip that gives him away. “Any sort of savagery you wish, your Grace,” he says.

“Dispense with the ‘your Grace,’ please,” Erik says. “It’s Erik. Or ‘sir,’ if you really insist. I think we’ve reached that point.”

At this blue eyes finally flick upward at last to meet Erik’s, and with a perfectly straight face Xavier says, “But if I dispense with your Grace, I’ll have no husband.”

Erik can’t entirely control his reaction to that - he’s certain it shows on his face, even if just for a split second before he’s wrangling himself back under control, chest aching from the effort of holding back a bark of a laugh as he smoothes his exterior back to its usual blank façade. For several seconds he’s sure he looks quite the fool, struck dumb by his own omega, standing there in front of him and not entirely sure what to do with himself. He’s not sure which is the greater shock: Xavier, or his own reaction. That Xavier is capable of pulling from him any reaction at all.

He recovers enough to allow Charles a thin smile, though something in him remains shaken. He doesn’t like being caught off guard. It feels … vulnerable.

“I don’t intend to hurt you,” Erik says, deciding to pick back up on the previous line of conversation. “No more than what you would usually expect from these sorts of proceedings, at least.”

Charles ducks his eyes, hiding again as though that one burst of personality is all he is good for, his charm spent. “Then I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m sure you are,” Erik says, a bit wry as he steps away, letting Charles follow him through the antechamber and down the narrow taper-lit hall toward his bedroom. And - fuck, but he expects he has Logan to blame for the rose petals scattered all around the floor, as if the candles and the incense weren’t enough already.

The curtains are drawn in here, as well, but Erik is starting to appreciate the dim light - on Charles' behalf, mostly. Erik personally wishes he could examine every inch of his husband’s naked body under the glow of Falsenight, but there’s time enough for that later. It may take several months before Charles is with child, after all.

Erik stops when they’re standing on the bear rug nearest his bed and turns to face Charles once more. This time, he doesn’t need quite as much circumspection before he begins undoing the buttons of Charles' shirt. Bone, not silver, more’s the pity, but perhaps this much was intentional. Erik doubts Charles' people enjoyed the idea of the Duke of the North tearing their Earl’s body to bits with metal in his lustful haste.

If Erik were expecting Charles to participate in any fashion - to undress him in turn, perhaps, or at least help with the task of his own shirt - such fancies are quickly put to rest. Charles stands there like a doll, silent and compliant while Erik slips each button free of its hole, Erik’s gaze lingering a bit longer on bared skin with each turn until at last he’s slipping the shirt off Charles' shoulders and down his arms, letting it drop to the floor behind him.

Charles has the softness of a noble who has never been asked to fight for his country, all pale unblemished skin and smooth joints. His body is slightly toned, from an activity that Erik suspects may be riding, but not enough that Erik could feel power beneath his skin or trace the lines of veins and tendons up his arms. This softness won’t last, of course - in the North, not even Duke’s husbands are allowed to while away their hours indoors drinking wine and reading poetry - but for now Erik finds he enjoys it. The novelty of it, at the very least; he finds himself distracted by the strange way Charles' flesh feels beneath his wandering hands. 

By the time Erik is sliding Charles' leather belt free from his trousers, it’s not because he has to force himself to keep going forward but because he finds himself wanting to see _more_. He can’t stop thinking how Charles really is quite pretty, like some delicate flowering herb imported from the Southern kingdoms, exotic and rare. And the more skin Erik uncovers, the more Charles' scent permeates the room. Whomever chose frankincense chose well; Charles' natural scent reminds Erik of rosemary, and the two aromas complement each other beautifully, overriding something in the back of Erik’s mind that he suspects should have been caution.

He pushes Charles' trousers down, impatience creeping in around the fringes of his restraint, and at least Charles bothers enough to kick them away, and his shoes too. Even so, by now Charles' cheeks are flushed, the color spreading down from his face to his chest. His skin even feels hot to the touch when Erik traces a fingertip along his jawline, fascinated.

Charles turns his face away and his cheeks flush darker still, almost red. Erik makes a half-wild vow to find out who told Charles he ought to be embarrassed by his body and see to it that they’re executed, because Charles … because Charles is exquisite, all blunt edges and slight curves, hips wide enough that he’ll carry Erik’s child easily, and all Erik can think is that Charles has no right to be anything but brazenly, fiercely proud of his own beauty. Certainly he doesn’t realise what a weapon it could be; Charles could ask almost anything of Erik right now, standing before him like this, and Erik would have a very hard time telling him no.

Erik leans in and closes his eyes, lets his lips brush against the warm skin at Charles' neck, just below his ear. Erik can’t help feeling coarse and brutish next to him, like a man carved out of granite instead of clay - but there’s the terrifying quiver of instinct, too: the almost nauseatingly strong urge to protect Charles and keep him safe. Erik thinks perhaps he underestimated the impact this kind of bond could have. How easy it would be, if he himself were omega, to kill any alpha enemy stupid enough to undress him. By scarcely lifting a finger, he could see Shaw deposed, if he believed there was any part of Shaw still human enough to feel something like this.

Perhaps the realisation should have made him wary, but it doesn’t. Something in the omega’s scent overpowers that as well. Erik’s slept with others before, and never felt this way. Of course, the other omegas were never his mate; he never intended to put his child in their belly. He never had their union blessed by a dragon.

His hands roam Charles' body freely, exploring the dip between his hipbones and his thighs, the curve of his arse, the tender small of his back - Charles is quivering slightly, a fine tremble under the skin. His cock is soft - unsurprising, given Charles' inexperience. It’s uncircumcised, too, which feels absolutely bizarre when Erik holds in him in the palm of his hand, but makes it easier to stroke up and down his shaft. Charles jerks and lets out a small huff of air that might be a whine as Erik’s free hand curls in Charles' hair, his brow resting on Charles' shoulder so he can watch, rapt, while Charles' sheathed cock stiffens halfway under his ministrations. The foreskin curls back a bit, exposing a glimpse of the pink head of Charles' cock. Erik thinks he might expose it entirely if Charles were fully aroused, but it’s all too clear that Erik won’t be making much progress in that regard until he has paid Charles' body quite a great bit more attention.

Charles squirms, but doesn’t pull away, instead asking, voice tight, “Are you going to undress?” 

Erik’s not arrogant enough to think the question signifies anything more than a desire for Erik to hurry things along - due to impatience or embarrassment or both. He abandons the task of stroking Charles' cock a bit reluctantly. His own buttons, at least, are steel; it takes less than a second to have his shirt undone, and a second more to shrug it off and toss it aside. The trousers are next, aided again by the steel buttons of Erik’s fly and the copper woven into the thread they’re sewn with. If Charles wants him naked, then very well, he’ll be naked. But Erik’s determined to have Charles enjoy this, even if it takes all damn night.

There’s a long moment of silence, where Charles clearly tries not to look, but then he blinks, turning his head to stare between Erik’s legs, and says, in a much sharper tone than Erik has ever heard him use before, “Fuck, you’re a bloody Snowlander!”

~*~

Whatever it was in Charles' scent that had enabled Erik to feel so relatively unguarded around him, it turns out, is not sufficient to overpower the shock of hearing those words coming out of his new husband’s mouth. All of Erik’s instincts immediately abandon any mating-related inclinations and Erik can almost taste the shift of his own hormones as they re-classify Charles from _omega_ to _threat_.

His thoughts spin quickly into a familiar pattern - one learnt and honed on the battlefield, when he only has a second or less to make a decision and react or lose his life. He abandons reason and turns to reflex instead, letting intuition hurl itself in every direction until he seizes upon a solution.

It’s pretty clear his cock is what has given him away, and how Charles knows what circumcision is, while a question some part of Erik desperately wants the answer to, is much less important than the question that follows on its tail: what the fuck is Erik going to do about it? Because instinct is screaming _kill him!_ and Erik doubts slaying his new Southern omega husband in their marriage bed will bode very well for his long-term goals.

There are no weapons allowed in a marriage consummation, but with Erik’s Gift that means absolutely nothing; he is suddenly, acutely aware of every piece of metal in the entire room, from the buttons on his shirts to the candlesticks to the trace amounts of iron in Charles' own blood. Any of them would respond to his call, if he called, _whenever_ he called. And marriage consummation says nothing specifically of marriage _bed;_ Erik has no less than eight military-grade weapons stashed throughout the room, all with metal blades.

He forces himself to ignore the voice in his head crying out for Charles' blood and tries to entertain other, more reasonable possibilities. 

Bribe him, suggests one voice, though it’s quickly quashed by the recollection of Charles' extensive dowry.

Blackmail? No, but he doesn’t have anything on Charles, not yet. _Invent something_ , that voice argues - and really, that’s not a bad idea, if it comes necessary. His awareness of the double-bladed sword stashed beneath his bed is burning a hole in his thoughts.

Deny it? Not possible; not if Charles is as clever as he seemed before, and certainly not if he’s as clever as Erik is starting to suspect he really is. Erik lets the more murderous part of his mind curl itself around the handle of the sword, spreading out through the razor-sharp steel of its blade, luxuriating in the sense of it, begging to feel the heat of blood.

Lock Charles in the castle and never let him out again - there’s another option, but it requires arranging for Charles' stepbrother to meet with an unfortunate accident on the road back South, as well as multiple bribes, which would lose currency as soon as the individuals receiving them felt they were safely distant from the long arm of Erik’s military force. Erik has to curl his hands into fists to keep the part of his mind that has all but become the sword from lashing out with it.

First things first, suggests the most reasonable voice so far: find out exactly what he knows, and what he intends to do about it. Assess severity of threat. Respond appropriately.

“Excuse me?” Erik says, his voice colder than it’s ever been, those two words icier than the words that sentence a man to die or order an army to war. The whole progress of his decision has taken only seconds.

Charles’ eyes snap up from Erik’s crotch to his face, and if his cheeks have gone pale then his eyes are suddenly alive in a way they haven’t been before, his true intelligence showing itself at last. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice half your cock is missing?” he asks snidely, holding himself stiff, somehow pulling dignity around himself despite his nakedness. “I’m an omega, not stupid. I assume nobody knows?”

It’s hardly _half his cock_ , Erik wants to argue, but such arguments are a relic of thinking of Charles as his new husband rather than his potential enemy. He casts it aside.

“On the contrary,” Erik says, and it’s easy enough to seem as if he takes great relish in saying so, even if the casual confidence he’s affecting is anything but. “ _Everyone_ knows. Everyone who matters, at least. Even if I let you leave this room alive, you won’t make it three steps before you find yourself cut down. So, I’m a Snowlander. Yes. A barbarian. Assume all the rumours are true and now tell me - what are you going to do about it?”

Charles raises an eyebrow. His face is so emotive now, compared to his act before. “If you so much as trim my pinky nail there are enough Southern nobles in this castle to require you either to surrender yourself to them or have a bloody massacre and declare war on the entire kingdom,” he says. “Which you’re not going to do. You need an heir, which means you need an omega, and you need connections to the South, which means a Southern omega, and frankly that means me, unless you intend to return me and take the risk that the same won’t happen again, which it’s entirely possible it would. So. I intend to bargain.”

The fact that Erik begs to differ when it comes to the probability of him hosting a bloody Southern massacre and declaring war on Shaw’s kingdom right here, right now, is not something he feels any particular need to share. If that’s the option he chooses, he won’t have to inform Charles. He’ll just kill him.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Erik all but drawls. “I forgot - your people are traders. How quaint. Very well, young merchant, tell me: what do you intend to offer?” Of course, Erik’s perfectly aware that unless he wants to revise his plans quite significantly, he’s very much at Charles' mercy. But asking Charles what he wants _from_ him are not words that will roll easily off of Erik’s tongue. He’d sooner order the massacre.

Charles’ eyes narrow. “As it happens, we both need the same thing. You need a husband, and I need a husband. I’ll keep your secret, and be your spouse - I’ll warm your bed, bear your children, and run the household in your absence. In return, you will allow me to continue my studies and have my independence. I want to be treated like a human being with a mind of my own, instead of a broodmare.”

“I see,” Erik says. “You want to be treated like my equal, do you? You want independence?” Dragon-fire, but it’s almost too comical. Erik almost laughs. Almost. Charles could have asked for half Erik’s lands, or direct access to Erik’s funds, or - well, almost anything. And yet he asks for the most basic rights any Frjáls omega would enjoy by default. “You, Southern-born and Southern-bred, in exchange for keeping my secret, only ask that I treat you as those barbarian alphas of the North treat their omegas? I suppose if being barbarian was all you wanted, you married very well.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Charles snaps. “You can pretend to be a noble savage all you want, but you still bought me from my stepfather like a pig at market. It may seem little to you, but being able to send my own damn letters and study science instead of needlework is a very big deal to me. Look at you, alpha, born with the right to do whatever you want whenever you want, and nobody ever able to say no, or that you’re wrong, or not alpha enough. Fuck you. I don’t care if you think it insignificant, it’s significant enough to me to be worth the price.”

“Actually, your stepfather paid me for the honour when he sent me your dowry,” Erik says, holding up one finger. “Secondly,” another finger goes up, “you’ll forgive me if I think this all seems a little too good to be true. Whatever arrangements alphas may have had with their omegas in the South, it is not our custom here. It’s true that I had no intention of treating you like a Frjáls omega when I married you this evening, because that is not what you are. But neither had I any intention of forbidding you from studying science if that is what you wish to do with your time.” 

Erik drops his arm and sets to circling Charles, as if seeing him from all angles will expose the hidden strings in Charles' deal and let Erik snip them before they take root. “So please, allow me to clarify the rules of your bargain. You want freedom. I am willing to consider that request. I will not have you pretending I am granting you some boon hitherto unknown to alpha-kind in this land or any other land. I will treat you the way I would any Frjálsman, omega or otherwise. This grants you the independence you request. But I will not have you saying it is a pretense at ‘noble savagery.’ That you grew up so ignorant is no excuse for remaining so.”

“Would it make you feel better if I threw in some frivolous request?” Charles asks, and folds his arms across his chest, mouth tight. “That’s what I want. If you feel generous, never allowing Cain or my stepfather within a hundred miles of here again would be an acceptable wedding present.”

Erik finds it interesting that Charles does not seek to clarify further. It grants Erik a certain … flexibility. Of course, Charles is also left in the position of being able to rescind the bargain whenever he likes and tell the world that Erik is a dreaded barbarian of the Snowlands. Though if he ever did consider that route, he’d be throwing away any political capital he hoped to gain by marrying Erik in the first place, since Erik’s Duchy would then be considered in rebellion and Charles himself suspect for never betraying Erik earlier. 

They have reached, Erik thinks, some tentative sort of balance. That isn’t to say Erik doesn’t intend on having Moira do everything in her power to suss out anything he might hold over Charles' head should it become necessary later on, but for now … for now, perhaps, Erik can trust that Charles' motives are no more complicated than some mild political ambitions and a desperate desire to throw off the net that has held Southern omegas captive for centuries. Erik finds he cannot grudge Charles any of that - not even the blackmail, not really, since Charles would have no other reason to expect Erik to live up to his end of the deal.

“Very well,” Erik says at last, closing his last circle ‘round Charles and coming to a halt, hands clasped behind his back. “We’re in agreement, then.”

Charles nods. “Deal.”

Something in Erik relaxes, though only slightly. He isn’t going to be making the mistake of letting his guard down around Charles again any time soon. It’s only after several beats have passed that he nods down at Charles' cock and says: “You still have to let me fuck you, you understand, or the marriage is in danger of annulment. And I _do_ still intend to have my heir.”

The flush rises back to Charles’ cheeks, but his voice is firm as he answers, “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Erik smile is sharp, and he doesn’t answer; he just places a hand in the middle of Charles' chest and pushes him back until Charles is forced to climb up onto the bed behind him, crawling toward the center and waiting there, propped up on both elbows, watching Erik as if wary of any sudden movements.

Erik follows a moment later, bracketing Charles' smaller body beneath his larger one, kissing him on the neck in the same spot as he had just ten minutes before. This time Charles' head tips back to make room, and he lets out a little sound, neither encouraging nor discouraging, but perhaps nervous. It’s strange, Erik thinks; the instinct really ought to be smarter than this, because Erik’s rational mind hasn’t quite dismissed the notion of Charles-as-enemy - yet here they are, and instinct responds to that sound as eagerly as if it were a moan. Erik isn’t above dismissing the notion that there’s a part of him that rather enjoys the idea of having a blackmailer in his bed. It does have a certain dangerous allure.

Erik kisses down the line of Charles' throat, his hands tracking down Charles' torso, half-mindedly measuring how many spans it would take to circle Charles' waist between them. It occurs to him that it wouldn’t go amiss, a little reinforcement of the deal they’ve made. “You know,” Erik says almost idly as his right hand curls around Charles' cock again, slowly working it back toward arousal, “if you’re going to be a savage now, you should beware: we barbarians like to have our omegas _enjoy_ sex. That is, of course, unless your dignity puts you far above the option.”

Charles’ chin comes back down, and he glares at Erik, though the effect is rather undermined by the pouting moue of his lips. “You know full well this is my first time,” he snaps, and tries to draw his legs up only to be blocked by Erik’s body. “I’m sorry if I don’t meet your standards.”

Erik rolls his eyes quite visibly. “Of course, I forgot,” he says. “One’s first time should always be a bloody and traumatic experience, loath to be repeated even under threat of torture.” He keeps working Charles' cock and kisses Charles' neck again, this time catching at his skin with his teeth and tugging slightly. “Just because it’s your first time doesn’t mean you can’t get at least _some_ enjoyment from the ordeal,” Erik says, words muffled slightly against Charles' skin. 

“That’s not what I meant.” Charles turns his head away, and covers his eyes with his forearm, squirming under Erik’s body as his cock hardens into a lovely curve against his belly. He sounds much more like the young omega he had seemed to be earlier when he continues, almost plaintively, “I - ah! - don’t know what to do, all right?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Erik says, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the slit at the head of Charles' cock. “You can be creative in the future. This time,” Erik smirks, kissing and nipping a line down Charles' sternum and the flat plane of his stomach, shifting back onto his knees, “it’s my pleasure.” 

He takes Charles' cock into his mouth - just the tip at first, watching Charles' reaction, waiting for the telltale red flush to blossom beneath Charles' skin again before he sucks Charles in to the hilt, burying his nose in the coarse brown curls at Charles' groin. The body under his squirms, and Charles lets out a loud whine, fingers curling in the furs that cover the bed and pale thighs trembling. “Oh - ”

Erik battles back a grin and draws back toward the tip of Charles' cock again, tongue flicking at the ridge beneath the head, before he slides his mouth back down to the base once more, relaxing the back of his throat enough that he can swallow against Charles' cock, mimicking a sensation he knows from experience is almost unbearably pleasurable. The response is immediate - Charles cries out, squirming harder, and his hips jolt upward, his hands twisting the fur into thick fistfuls. His cock thickens in Erik’s mouth, jerking of its own accord. “Ah, please!”

Erik has almost forgotten how too-easy it is, when it’s someone’s first time. Of course, Charles has probably fucked his own hand before, but with the restrictions the Southerners place on their noble omegas, he’s almost certainly never had somebody’s mouth. Erik hums around Charles' cock, his only way of showing his satisfaction, and pushes Charles' legs up with one hand on each thigh so his knees are bent. Erik keeps his mouth moving on Charles' cock as he slides a hand down to where Charles' skin is hot and slick with fluids, his middle finger pushing slow but sure into the tight, pulsing vise of Charles' hole.

The sound Charles makes this time is more of a protest, and he tries again to close his legs, body fluttering around Erik’s invading digit as though trying to push it out. He’s not stupid enough to protest verbally, but everything about Charles' body has become a _no,_ from the arch of his back to the tension in his thighs. Erik can’t not-notice, but they’re both well aware that at some point he’s going to have to be fitting his cock in there, and the more he can get Charles to associate being penetrated with pleasure, the better. 

He hollows his cheeks out around Charles' cock and curves his finger upward, trying to find that sweet spot inside him, the one that every omega has. It’s easier to find on males than females, generally, but it still takes a few seconds before Erik identifies that soft, almost spongy flesh and massages it.

“Ah, nnnnn, oh, Gods,” Charles cries, flushing a darker red, and his legs fall open, that resistance in him becoming pleasure instead. Erik’s quickly finding himself addicted to the way Charles looks like this, his own hips grinding down abortively against the mattress, his cock throbbing with want. With his head down here, there’s no escaping Charles' pheromones and Erik can feel himself tilting further and further away from his usual restraint. It’s like his mind has taken up on a single track: the desire to see more of _this_ , to see Charles aching with desire and impaled on Erik’s cock, to hear Charles yell his name when Erik knots him. 

Erik sucks Charles' cock like it’s his only job in the world, dedicating his every faculty to the task of making Charles come, his finger stroking Charles inside so insistently that Charles doesn’t even seem to notice when Erik slips a second finger in alongside the first. Charles is panting for breath between making these soft, mewling noises, his chest heaving and nipples tight; he seems to have entirely surrendered, his body given over to Erik’s ministrations. It’s not much longer before Charles' hand is scrabbling at Erik’s shoulders, trying to push him off as Charles' cock throbs in Erik’s mouth - but Erik keeps going, determined, until Charles' hips are jerking upward as he comes down Erik’s throat, moaning loud and shameless.

Erik works him through his climax, his gaze fixed helplessly upon Charles' face, memorizing what bits he can see beneath the arm that’s half-flung over Charles' head as if to hide his pleasure from him. 

Erik pulls his mouth off Charles' cock, leaving quiet kisses along Charles' skin as he crawls back up the length of Charles' body, fingers still inside Charles, though focused more now on the task of keeping Charles open and ready for him than stimulating him. 

Charles is limp now against the bed, his mouth open and gasping for air; his face is turned into the crook of his elbow, so all Erik can see is his swollen, bitten lips and the flush on his throat. His hair is a tousled mess around his head from where he’s been tossing and squirming, reacting so sweetly to Erik’s touch. A pleasant contrast, Erik thinks, to before.

Erik spreads his fingers inside Charles' ass and reaches for Charles' wrist with his other hand, gently tugging Charles' arm away and exposing his face in all its bright-red, scrunched-up glory. “Are you embarrassed?” he asks. The question is genuine, even if Erik has his suspicions regarding the answer. G-d, though, Erik can’t even stop himself rocking down against the bed. He wants to fuck Charles more than he’s wanted to fuck anyone else, ever.

“Of course I am,” Charles says, but he opens his eyes to look up at Erik, and in his scarlet face his blue irises are startling, more so even than the wetness that rims them. “Why do you have to - I just - can’t you just get on with it?”

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” Erik says, sliding a third finger into Charles, banking on Charles being distracted. “Out of interest, is it only embarrassing when an omega comes? Or an alpha, also?”

Charles clenches around the wider intrusion, his scowl ruined by the distraction until he’s gasping. “It’s embarrassing to have you staring at me,” he manages, breathless, clearly trying to look cross and failing. “When you have your fingers in me and I can’t stop - nnnn - making these noises, making a fool of myself - ”

“If that’s being foolish, then I think foolishness is particularly attractive on you,” Erik says, one corner of his lips quirking upward. Charles is more than slick enough; he could take Erik’s cock easily now, but Erik is willing to hold off just long enough to make his point, as much as his cock hates him for it. “I’ll be the one making a fool of myself shortly enough. You’re welcome to stare as much as you’d like, when the time comes.”

Charles looks away, hands in tight fists to either side of his twitching hips. “Please just get it over with.”

Erik tries to dampen his exasperation, reminding himself that Charles grew up in a very different culture with very different expectations, but it doesn’t do much good. Not that frustration is having much of an impact on his erection, anyway - which is for the best, as Erik is pretty sure that sucking Charles' cock does not count as consummation of the marriage. 

“As you wish,” he says, drawing his fingers out of Charles' ass and curling them ‘round the base of his own cock instead. 

The moment he pushes past the initial clench of Charles' muscle, burying himself balls-deep in Charles' body, a shudder runs down Erik’s spine and he groans, head dropping past Charles' so his cheek is brushing against Charles' still-hot face. Charles makes a tight, uninterpretable sound, his entire body tensing around Erik, thighs quivering on either side of Erik’s hips. His fists curl tighter, then all of a sudden release their grip on the fur blanket, and Charles' hands come to rest on Erik’s shoulders, squeezing hard. 

Erik lifts his head again, one hand caught in Charles' hair, thumb pressed against his sweat-damp brow. He doesn’t trust Charles to tell him if it hurts too badly, or if he needs Erik to slow down. Erik will have to read his cues from Charles' face and body instead. He starts off slow, making shallow little thrusts into Charles, their gazes locked together. Erik’s heart is pounding already, forcing the hormones his body is producing in response to Charles' to flow through his blood even faster, making him light-headed with desire. Charles’ lips are parted, gasping, his eyes wide and shocked as he’s penetrated.

When he’s convinced that Charles can take it, Erik quickens his pace slightly, his right hand grasping Charles' thigh and keeping his leg bent enough that Erik doesn’t run the danger of slipping out of him. On impulse, eyes still open, Erik steals a kiss from Charles' mouth - the first one he’s taken so far - an almost experimental gesture, just to see what Charles will do. 

And for a moment, the answer is nothing - Charles stares up at Erik like he can’t believe what Erik is doing to him, ass tight and slick and throbbing around Erik’s cock, but then the hands on Erik’s shoulders slide slowly down his back, and Charles pulls Erik in closer on a shaking moan, until his thigh is bent so far back it’s practically flush to his chest, and Charles can hide his face in the side of Erik’s neck, his arms clinging tightly around Erik’s shoulders as Charles inhales against Erik’s skin, trembling and smelling intensely aroused. He _feels_ aroused, too, Erik realises a split second later, Charles' cock slowly hardening again against Erik’s stomach.

Erik thrusts harder, letting instinct finally take over entirely, rutting into Charles and breathing deep the scent of him, Erik’s hand tangled in the hair at the back of Charles' head, half-holding him up even if it means Charles gets to hide his face. Charles is incredibly tight, but he’s slick, too; it isn’t entirely fair to say Erik wouldn’t have realised he was a virgin if he didn’t already know, but Charles nonetheless has a way of fitting himself up around Erik’s body as if he belongs there, as if he was built to curl against him - and Erik is thrown momentarily by the thought of the knotted cord around their wrists, before, by the strange idea that perhaps they will knot - their scents, their selves - same as their bodies will. 

He kisses the curve of Charles' ear, then the lobe, but he’s quickly starting to lose the capability for finer motion; his cock is starting to swell in Charles' ass, heat building between his legs. Erik doesn’t try to quiet his own moans, his gasps, Charles' name broken on his lips. He wants Charles to hear. He wants him to know what he’s doing to him. The bed creaks beneath their weight, swaying with their motion, and Erik’s world is reduced to one person as his hips jerk arrhythmically and he starts to come, knot building fast.

It catches him by surprise all the same, the moment when his knot fixes and Charles suddenly cries out again, throwing his head back and squeezing tight with all four limbs where he’s wrapped around Erik, ass pulsing and clenching around the swollen knot inside him as he comes hard, almost screaming. Erik insinuates a hand down between their stomachs, not entirely sure he trusts his own body, not until he’s felt Charles' come hot and thick against his fingers. 

He rocks forward into Charles best as the knot will allow, his heart rate beginning at last to slow, even if he doubts he’ll be catching his breath again any time soon. His hand, still come-slick, goes back to the nape of Charles' neck, holding him as he gently sets his head down against the furs, Erik staying unavoidably close as his knot keeps them tied together.

Charles is panting, body lax against the bed and thighs splayed around Erik’s body, all the tension of earlier gone with his orgasm; there’s a dreamy look on his face that’s probably at least in part down to the relaxation hormone released when an omega is knotted, making him tranquil and satisfied so he won’t fight the bond. Charles' eyes are half-lidded, his mouth a soft open ‘o’, as though he’s been slightly surprised by the outcome of their mating.

Of course, Erik thinks, though even this thought is languid and drawn-out, it’s entirely possible he’s just projecting onto Charles what he likes to think Charles is feeling, but then again, he’s always considered himself an exceptional judge of people. But there’s another disclaimer: Charles managed to fool him. Not entirely, but more than most. Probably Erik shouldn’t be lying here with him, indulging in his instinct’s half-formed fantasies of possession and protection, but he can’t quite muster up the nerve to fight it. Not when he still has Charles naked and warm in his arms. 

Not even later, really, even when the knot goes down and Erik is able to pull away, dragging the blankets down past Charles' heavy body and then draping them over him again, lifting Charles' head just long enough to slide a down pillow underneath it. He almost thinks Charles is asleep - or he does, until he’s settling down in bed next to him and sees the telltale glimmer of blue beneath the fringe of Charles' lashes, watching him.

“Sleep now,” Erik says, keeping an arm’s distance between them. “We have nowhere to be in the morning.”

“Are you going to fuck me again in the morning?” Charles asks, his voice drowsy in contrast to his question, his hands curled up by his face, fingers loose.

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.” 

“Well, I guess I’ll find out,” Charles says, and this time his eyes drift truly shut.

Erik lies there a little while longer, watching Charles, counting the time it takes him to inhale and exhale as if to gauge how long it takes him to fall asleep, strangely wary of moving too soon or too much and disturbing him. 

There’s a strange sense of calm in the bedroom now, and a certain contentment, like the sort of post-coital lassitude Erik rarely allows himself; it ebbs and flows, seeming to grow and shrink with his heartbeat, and it’s only when Charles shifts and winces, and Erik feels a throb of discomfort himself, that he realises what is going on.

The omega in his bed is a telepath.

~*~


	4. Four

_Charles_

 

Charles wakes up slowly the next morning, awareness sneaking up on him in the form of sensory detail: the softness of the furs and blankets he’s sleeping in. Light leaking around the edges of the drapes, where the unsetting sun must have changed positions to torment him. The musky smell of alpha all over everything, and the deep ache at his hole, tender and sore from the vigorous pounding it received last night.

It feels like one of the early hours of the morning, before he ought to be awake; the relentless daylight here has disturbed his usual patterns, so he has to rely on guesswork.

Charles shifts his bare legs against the fur and groans a little under his breath as his asshole spasms, the movement enough to rouse him the rest of the way. Opening his eyes and blinking away drowsiness, he startles as he finds himself looking across the pillows at his new husband, still asleep beside him. Erik’s mind is so quiet and contained that it’s easy to overlook.

The face that goes along with that mind is relaxed, the lines that normally mark his expressions eased -- it doesn’t so much make him look younger as it makes him less fierce. His eyelashes are surprisingly long when laid against his cheek, his mouth generous when not curled into a smirk.

A sudden flashback to that face barely an inch above his, sweat dripping from Erik’s brow onto Charles’ cheek, breath gusting across Charles’ skin, and Charles on his back, splayed open and thrust into --

The heat blossoming in Charles’ chest and groin is not down to the thickness of the blankets. _Gods._

Carefully, gingerly, Charles eases himself onto his back then over onto his other side, putting himself further from Erik, and closes his eyes against the memory of being fucked, being opened for the first time. Even his heart is beating faster. It had been so - different, than what Charles had expected. His body had just reacted to Erik’s on its own, animal and instinctive, taking Erik’s cock inside and feeling pleasure instead of violation, hunger where Charles had thought only to endure. Even when Erik had taunted him, Charles’ body had wanted more, even as his head despised his own lack of self-respect.

Charles shakes his head to dismiss the memory; it’s not worth thinking about. Instead, he makes himself think of the conversation that came before it, turning their agreement over in his mind so he can consider it from all angles.

Point the first: Erik now knows that Charles is not the stereotypical empty-headed noble omega. While this does prevent Charles from being able to play dumb in future, at least he can now be himself without having to assess first whether his next comment is something ‘dumb Charles’ would say. A mark in its favour.

Point the second: Provided Erik honours his word, Charles has successfully negotiated to be independent and relatively free of oversight. Whatever Erik thinks of Charles’ request -- and he made it fairly clear that he thought it inane, in the rudest possible fashion -- it means that Charles should have a fair amount of leeway in managing his own affairs, which makes it much easier to continue with his plans. No doubt his plans are not what Erik had in mind; probably Erik imagines Charles wants to be able to go riding when he wants, or wear what he likes. He made his opinion of Southern omegas quite clear. But that doesn’t matter, so long as he keeps his word. That said … in Charles’ experience, it matters very little to most alphas what they say or do to their omegas, they simply do as they wish and ignore any objections. And once the wedding guests are gone, Charles will be alone up here, with nobody to turn to to divulge Erik’s secret, even if he wanted to. Charles will have to wait and see what Erik _does_ , rather than what he says. The proof is in the deed, after all, not the word.

Charles curls his arm up under his head and considers point the third, possibly the most important. Erik, Charles’ husband, the Iron Duke, above retribution or rebuke from any but the King, is a Snowlander, or as Erik called himself, a Frjálsman - whatever that means. That, Charles has to admit, came as something of a surprise.

It’s clear from Erik’s mere existence that what little Charles knows of the war against the Snowlanders is rather flawed; there’s clearly some more complex history there which Charles doesn’t know, because there’s no obvious explanation for how the Duke of a Kingdom duchy, son of one of the most famous Southern generals to ever live, could be one of the barbarian Snowlanders himself, nor how it could be kept a secret. If Erik is a Snowlander, then this means that if anyone were to find out, an awfully large mess would ensue; quite aside from the issue of Charles’ children’s heritage, which he had thought at least secure no matter what sort of husband Erik Lehnsherr turned out to be. Which means Charles needs to investigate, and soon, if he’s going to keep his leverage against Erik and know enough to use it, and he needs to learn enough to prevent things from going in a direction that suits neither of them.

Thinking about Erik’s heritage, however, leads to thinking about how Charles had stumbled across it, and it’s just as he’s trying not to think about Erik’s cock that he feels the bed shift behind him, furs sliding across his naked skin as an arm loops over his waist and tugs him back against a big, hard body.

“Still here, then,” Erik says in a low rumble that Charles feels vibrate through him, voice low from sleep.

“Still here,” Charles says. A fine shiver runs down his body, a warm tingle that spreads from the crown of his head to his toes; there’s no chance that Erik hasn’t felt it, lying flush against Charles’ back, his knees nudging against the backs of Charles’ calves.

Or perhaps Charles is imagining the slightly sardonic tilt to the words when Erik says, “Cold, are you?” and rolls Charles over in his arms to face him. This close, chest to chest and legs tangled, meeting Erik’s gaze is all but unavoidable, grey-green eyes only a little softer than the night before, half-lidded with sleep. Charles feels his mouth tighten with annoyance, and lifts his hands to Erik’s chest, intending to push him away -- but the arm around him squeezes just a little and he takes the hint, staying where he’s been put and saying instead, “Good morning. Assuming you can call it morning, when there’s no such thing as night time here.”

“Four hours into the day, by the Southern count,” Erik replies, a twist to his lips that could be interpreted as either amusement or derision. “It’s still summer, husband. You’ll have your fill of night time when winter comes.”

Gods. Just imagining it is enough to make Charles claustrophobic; he’s heard plenty about northern winters, too, enough to make him wish earnestly for an endless summer instead. Charles shifts restlessly, and winces when the motion makes his ass throb, not so much pain as a deep awareness of last night. “Then you should probably let go of me so we can go back to sleep. It’s too early to be awake.”

Erik gives him a long, considering look -- one that lasts several seconds past the point that Charles would consider comfortable. A taut sort of silence, Erik’s lips turned into a small frown. And then Erik seems to catch himself and his expression is swept back to neutral, gaze turning away from Charles’s eyes and toward his body instead. _What is he thinking?_ It’s infuriating not to know.

“Ah, yes,” Erik says, his hands wandering over Charles’s bare skin beneath the furs and skirting far too close to Charles’s ass, “but you should really start trying to get accustomed. I usually wake around this time myself, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to spend the whole day in bed. As an _independent omega_ , I’d have thought you’d agree.”

Charles’ attention refocuses itself rather abruptly from his body’s complaints to his husband, and he scowls, this time shoving at Erik’s chest with both hands. “As an independent omega I reserve the right not to get up at an unholy hour of the morning,” he says, ignoring the firm muscle under his fingers. “The seventh hour is quite early enough for anyone who’s not either a farmer or entirely insane.”

“Well, you’re welcome to go back to sleep until seven if you wish,” Erik says wryly, apparently not dissuaded by Charles’ protest. “But I train my troops at five when the nation is not in a state of ceremony, and you’re still rather noticeably _not_ pregnant.”

Charles is starting to feel rather prickly. Here, then, is Erik’s version of giving Charles his independence: only valid when Erik does not require otherwise. “What does that have to do with the price of pears?”

“Our agreement, you understand.” Gods, but Erik is relishing this, it’s obvious in the long lazy tone of his voice and the smug look on his face. “You said you would bear my heirs, and you had no particular clauses regarding sex in the morning, if I recall correctly - and I do. I told you last night I hadn’t decided yet and, well, now I have.”

If Charles were a hedgehog, all his spines would be out now, his hackles raised; but -- he did make that promise, and reneging on it in any way might lead to Erik ignoring his own obligations, too. Grudgingly, his teeth grinding together, Charles says, each word bitten off, “I presume I’m entitled to go back to sleep afterwards?”

“Naturally.” Erik says it as if he’s granting Charles a boon. “Though I’d prefer it if you’d take a bath first, so we keep the furs in good condition. They’re both of ours, now, after all.”

 _Fuck you_ , Charles thinks, despite his body’s sudden interest, but what he says is, “Fine. Fuck me so I can go back to sleep.”

“I will,” Erik says affably, and then he’s turning Charles over again in his arms, back to chest, ignoring the way Charles had been trying to hold him at a distance so easily that it immediately dispels any illusions Charles had been harbouring about his ability to fight his husband off if the need ever came. He handles Charles as if he were as light as air.

Erik presses their bodies flat together, his large hands spreading across Charles’s torso, exploring his body with a proprietary ease. Charles strongly suspects he’s being intentionally languid, just to flaunt Charles’s powerlessness; his palms are rough with callus, catching on Charles’ skin as his right hand strokes Charles’ side from nipples to groin, a long slow caress that ends with him cupping the curve of Charles’ hip, tugging his ass back against Erik’s crotch and his swelling cock. It’s half-hard and hardening against Charles’ backside, and Erik’s hips rock against him, rubbing the length of it along his crack.

Charles bites the inside of his cheek to keep from making any sort of noise that Erik might take as encouragement; nonetheless, the scent of Erik’s arousal is heady and thickening around them, and Charles’ body is responding of its own accord, his heart racing hard enough that he can feel the pulse of it in his own neck, his wrists, and in his own filling erection, twitching and growing against his thigh.

“Good boy,” Erik says dryly, against his ear, and the hand on Charles’ hips shifts over to squeeze around the base of his cock.

“Aaah!” It’s impossible not to react; Charles thrusts without meaning to into Erik’s grip, gasping wide-mouthed at the pleasure that ignites in his lower belly. He feels entirely encircled, surrounded by Erik, his husband, his alpha, entangled in his arms and being nudged to bend his top leg forward by Erik’s own, nestled into the soft hollow behind Charles’ knee.

Regardless of what Charles had said last night, the cock pressing against his ass is far from being mutilatedly small; Erik’s erection feels huge as it rubs up and down Charles’ backside, nestled between his cheeks, long and thick and hard. The thought of it going into him again is enough to shake loose a strangled moan from Charles’ throat.

“You know,” Erik says, practically conversationally, still working his hand up and down Charles’s erection, “you strike me as awfully sex-hungry for someone who was still a virgin all of twelve hours ago. Are you always this sensitive? Or simply unaccustomed to touching yourself?”

Embarrassment grows hot in Charles’ chest, and he doesn’t answer, turning his face into the pillows to try and prevent Erik from seeing the humiliation on his face. Independence aside, it just feels _good,_ to be touched like this, and the fact that Erik is such an asshole about it is intensely confusing, his head embarrassed and his body aflame with arousal.

“Of course,” Erik says, continuing to talk as if Charles had said something in response. “Embarrassing. It’s all incredibly embarrassing. I forgot.” He does something with his wrist on Charles’s cock that makes Charles all but squirm against him, feeling as if he could force Erik into his hole if he moved in just the right way. “I suppose you’ll feel differently soon enough. ‘When among savages,’ and so on.”

Erik’s rudeness makes Charles indignant enough that he can’t help but say, in a strained voice, “If you’d stop being such an asshole about it then maybe I wouldn’t feel embarrassed.” He’s panting and shivering with contained pleasure, and he can feel his ass is wet and pulsing, wants with a sudden, unexpected desire to have Erik inside of him again, filling him up. He makes his voice tight, forceful, trying to stop himself from reacting to the physical stimulation. “You can’t tell me I shouldn’t be embarrassed then talk to me like I’m some kind of whore.”

For some reason Erik’s cock throbs when Charles talks, and with Erik’s mouth so close to Charles’s ear, he doesn’t miss the sharp hiss of air past gritted teeth. And this time he thinks he detects an edge of something … different, beneath Erik’s otherwise bland tone. “But you _are_ a whore,” Erik says. “We both are. Bought and paid for each other. Each holding each other’s secrets and desires over the other’s head. Can’t pretend to be something we’re not.”

Oh, that is _it_. Charles reaches down to grab Erik’s hand where it’s moving up and down his cock and tugs it away, wriggling now to get free instead of closer, anger burning away the humiliation and leaving him furious instead. “Let me go,” he snaps when the arms around him tighten, and curses when he’s dragged back into place against Erik’s chest, struggling against his alpha’s hold. “If you’re going to be like this for the rest of our lives then I’ll walk back to fucking Westchester -- ”

Erik laughs, and Charles is surprised to find the sound is - well, it’s not mocking, in any case, which is an improvement. It’s ... something else. Something brighter. Happy? No. No -- _pleased._ Erik releases him, but only long enough to push Charles down onto his back on the mattress, Erik lying down atop him and kissing him on the mouth, grinning against the muffled sound of Charles’s shock.

Charles is so angry he could spit if he weren’t being kissed so fiercely, Erik’s tongue stroking Charles’ inside his mouth, a hand laced into his hair to hold him there and the weight of Erik’s body pinning him down; Charles shoves at his shoulders with both hands, infuriated, then, when that has no effect, he can’t hold back the stifled, angry cry that’s been building in his chest, and without even thinking about it he bites Erik’s tongue, giving the tip of it a sharp nip with his incisors.

Erik makes a pained sound and jerks back, pushing off the bed and sitting back on his heels, looking equal parts frustrated and confused. “What the hell was that for?” And then, a beat later, as if only just realising: “What’s wrong?”

Freed, Charles sits up, bracing himself on his hands, which have clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t get to call me a whore,” he says sharply, eyes prickling, and he realises with sudden self-loathing that’s what this other, bruised feeling is: hurt, when he shouldn’t be letting Erik get to him at all. “You certainly don’t get to call me a whore then laugh at me and shove me down.”

“Is that really -- “ Erik starts, and then he seems to think better of it, because he’s shaking his head and frowning, frustration still lacing the edges of his scent. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says after several long moments of consideration, and for the first time his words actually sound genuine, not just sharp or wary or teasing. “I’m sorry to have offended.”

Charles isn’t sure what to do with that; he looks at Erik cautiously, trying to read him, but without the use of his telepathy it’s hard to know what Erik is thinking. Charles has never been good at facial expressions. Eventually, reluctantly, he says, “I accept your apology.”

It feels awkward now to be sat here like this, naked as a newborn in front of someone who is all but a stranger; Charles can feel himself flushing a slow pink, but he’s determined not to try and cover himself. He doesn’t want to give Erik the satisfaction. He has to show Erik he’s not afraid of him. “Can’t you at least pretend to be nice to me while you’re fucking me?” he asks, but he suspects the words are undermined by the outward pouting of his lower lip and the tremor in his jaw.

Erik looks faintly stunned, but he recovers quickly enough. “Yes,” he says a beat later. “Yes, I can.” And yet still he sits back, a good distance between himself and Charles, making no apparent moves to do anything about it.

The whole thing has left Charles only half hard now, his earlier erection fading while they talked; when he looks Erik is much the same, his long cock lying against his thigh. “All right,” Charles says, “all right,” and, slowly, watching Erik the whole time, he lies back down, letting his elbows bend until he’s on his back on the soft furs, then rolls over onto his side, the way they were lying before.

It’s silent for almost a minute, it seems like, until Charles glances over his shoulder at Erik and Erik says: “Oh. Do you want me to?” and Charles says, with false bravado the kingdom’s finest actor would be proud of, ”Well I won’t get pregnant by myself.”

Erik, at last, has the decency to look a little abashed, but he moves to settle down behind Charles again. After a moment, Charles can feel the ridges of Erik’s knuckles against him where Erik must be stroking himself back into full hardness. It doesn’t take long.

Charles closes his eyes and doesn’t touch himself, just waits until Erik has slotted himself up tightly against him, cock aligned with the crease between Charles’ buttocks, then shifts his leg forward, making room for him. When he feels the thick, broad head brush against his hole Charles inhales sharply, and then Erik is pushing against him, the slick little ring of muscle resisting for a moment before yielding and spreading wide around the broad head of Erik’s cock, letting him in.

The pressure of it is -- Charles doesn’t want to like it, but it feels delicious, and he moans low in his throat as Erik slides home, the thick shaft entering him and spreading Charles open around it, slipping in on Charles’ own slick. Erik’s breath is shallow and shuddering at the base of Charles’s neck and he wraps an arm around Charles, reaching down between his legs to take hold of Charles’s cock, stroking him slowly but firmly.

It feels -- Charles can’t help but let out more soft moans when Erik starts rocking in and out of him in time with his stroking hand, the enormous penetration sliding almost all the way out before pressing back into him again, over and over. Erik is being careful, so careful, and Charles feels ... good, it feels good, like a slow-banked fire building in his lower belly, the heat and firmness of Erik’s body behind him and inside him and the rolling thrust of Erik’s hips; hesitantly, waiting for a protest, Charles reaches back over his own head to loop his arm around the back of Erik’s neck, the tentative hold forcing him to arch his spine and press back further onto Erik’s cock.

But Erik doesn’t protest; he _moans_ instead, hips jerking up into Charles too roughly before Erik seems to get himself back under control, his lips pressing a kiss to Charles’ first vertebra. It’s such a contrast to last night, or to earlier, when Charles felt more manhandled than anything else, even if he did take pleasure from it. It feels dangerous, to be fucked like this, like Erik has listened to him, like Charles might be something Erik sees as more than just a bedtoy.

They rock together for an endless time, but eventually the feeling of pending orgasm gets too strong to bear, and Charles is panting again. He clenches involuntarily around the cock inside of him and tips his head to the side to bare the side of his neck, instinctively responding to Erik’s touch. “Please….”

The pace of Erik’s hand on Charles’s cock has quickened, and if Charles isn’t mistaken then Erik is starting to swell inside him as well -- he hadn’t been able to pay proper attention the night before, right before Erik came, when he started to knot. There’d just been the impossible pleasure of Erik’s knot dragging against something hot inside him, as if Erik’s cock had somehow located the seat of all Charles’s pleasure.

Erik’s mouth is on his arched neck, half-kissing half-biting, and while it doesn’t hurt Charles is sure it’ll leave a mark. Marking him as taken. Owned. He can hear Erik groaning behind him, and he’s definitely -- there’s -- the cock inside of him is so big now, the knot swelling and straining Charles’ tight asshole while Erik continues to fuck him until all of a sudden it catches inside of him, and Charles’ body clamps down hard around it, locking in place. The pressure grinds it against that sweet spot until everything in Charles spills over and he comes hard, breathless and crying out; Erik bites down on his throat and comes inside him, growling as his cock jerks and spurts inside Charles’ ass, filling him, hot and wet and thick. Still pushing against his ass, Erik moves his hand to catch what little semen Charles produced, and while Charles is still gasping through the aftershocks of his orgasm Erik presses the come into the skin of Charles’ belly, palm rubbing circles around Charles’ navel.

It must be at least fifteen minutes, this time, before Erik’s knot has gone down enough that he can slide out of Charles’ ass, but neither of them seem to be able to find the energy to speak; they just lie there, tangled up in each other, feverish and breathless. Erik’s hand lingers only a second too long on Charles’s stomach before he’s drawing it away, moving up to tilt Charles’s head back toward him -- and he catches Charles’s mouth in a kiss. Small, and strangely chaste considering Charles is full of Erik’s fresh come, the entire room smelling of their sex and last night’s crushed rose petals.

When Erik pulls away Charles keeps his eyes closed for a moment, savouring it, because he knows that when they start speaking, when they move, this -- whatever-it-is -- will break, because it can’t possibly last. When he opens them at last Erik is looking back at him, his face unreadable.

“How about that bath,” Charles says.

 

~*~

 

Erik gets up from the bed, and there’s nothing of that moment left now, everything about him speaking of his usual efficiency of motion. “All right,” he says, and gestures for Charles to follow him. Then he turns and walks off towards the atrium without so much as pausing to offer Charles a hand or indeed to put on clothes, his lean, strong body utterly naked and moving like some large predator, muscle shifting under skin in a way Charles can’t help but stare at.

That won’t do. _He called you a whore,_ Charles reminds himself, even as he pushes himself up from the bed and swings his legs over the side, standing with a wince for the reawakened ache in his ass. _He doesn’t like you, he just likes fucking you._ Charles, at least, is civilised enough to take his discarded shirt from where Erik left it on the floor the night before, drawing it around himself and fastening a few buttons.

When he pads barefoot into the atrium Erik is waiting for him with an impatient look on his face, brows raised. “You know you’re just going to have to take that off again in less than a minute,” he points out.

Charles raises his own eyebrows, mocking Erik’s expression. “Is that a Snowlander custom, then, making one’s new spouse walk through the castle naked so everyone can have a look? The baths are in the basement and we’re in the eaves. I’d rather dress.”

“What?” Erik says, looking surprised, then amused. “No. No, I have my own personal baths on the roof. There’s a private staircase that will take us there. No one will be seeing you naked but me.” A small smile, very nearly a smirk. “You can trust me on that, if nothing else.”

“On the _roof? Outside?_ ”

“No one goes up there but us,” Erik says. “And there’s an excellent view.”

 _An excellent view of the freezing North,_ Charles thinks, but doesn’t say, still incredulous at the very thought.

He’s silent long enough that Erik must get bored of waiting, because he turns on his heel and heads for a door that’s tucked into the corner of the room, which looks as though it ought to lead into the bedroom, but doesn’t; Charles had noticed a boxed off corner in the bedroom before that he had assumed was for the piping system, but which, logic suggests, must instead house the staircase. “Come on.”

Charles, reluctantly, follows, though he does not discard the shirt. If he’s going outside he wants at least some protection from the Northern weather.

The staircase is dark and narrow, unlit, and Charles wonders as he stumbles up the unfamiliar steps if he’s going to trip and break his neck; then Erik pushes open a door at the top and lets in the pale sunlight from outside, along with a chill breeze that makes Charles shudder, his skin popping up in goosebumps all over.

When he reaches the top of the staircase and looks out over the rooftop, though, he has to admit to being a little impressed.

The rooftop is wide and flat, bordered by short walls on three sides to keep people from falling off and others from seeing in; the fourth side is the mountain, rising high and craggy above them as though just waiting to fall. And spilling down its side is a steaming, rumbling waterfall, a fine spray bursting from it as it hits the broad, tiled pool that spans the rooftop, making the air misty and light-spangled as the sun catches the droplets in the air.

“So,” Erik says, folding his arms across his chest and looking incredibly smug. “What do you think?”

The mist is surprisingly warm. Charles can feel his shirt getting saturated with it, growing heavier and limp against his body. “It’s bizarre,” he says -- Erik snorts -- and Charles walks across the damp flagstones to the edge of the water, then dips his bare toe in to test the temperature. It’s almost too hot, but he has no doubt it’ll feel good on his sweaty, dirty skin. The fact it comes out of the ground this way is almost too mad to believe.

The air smells distinctly of sulphur, but Erik doesn’t even seem to notice as he steps down into the impossibly blue water, swimming over to the small bench beneath the surface at the far side where he stretches out, eyes closed and head tilted back against the stone ledge.

With Erik’s eyes closed, it’s easier for Charles to slip the unfastened shirt back off his shoulders and stand naked in the sunlight for the moment before he follows Erik into the pool, submerging himself as soon as the water is deep enough.

Below the surface the roar of the waterfall is louder, but everything else is blunted, and for the brief time before he has to come back up to breathe Charles can be alone and unobserved, floating and slowly relaxing in the heat while stray bubbles drift up from his nose and mouth.

When he comes back up Erik is watching him, and Charles decides to ignore him, instead swimming slowly over to the bottom of the waterfall, finding the bottom with his feet so he can stand and put out a hand to let the water beat at his palm.

“Do you like it?” Erik asks. His voice is quiet, strangely, and Charles can feel his eyes on him without having to look.

“This is your special place, isn’t it?” he asks without turning. He tips his head back to look up at the mountain above them, the rugged gray stone rough against the eggshell blue of the sky. “Where you come to be alone?”

For a moment it seems Erik won’t be answering him - but then, at last: “Yes.”

When Charles turns there’s a strange expression on Erik’s face, though it vanishes as soon as Erik catches him looking; Charles only just keeps himself from frowning, and more than anything he wants to pursue whatever thought put that expression there, but Erik’s mind is no more open to him today than it was last night or any of the time he’s been here, so instead he says, honestly, “Yes, I like it.”

Erik doesn’t respond -- doesn’t say anything, doesn’t smile; he simply closes his eyes and tips his head back again, stretching his legs out beneath the water. Clearly that was all he wanted to hear.

With a mental shrug, Charles turns back to the waterfall, and this time he steps forward so that he’s standing right in the full flow of it, water battering rhythmically down on his head and shoulders and drowning out the rest of the world. It’s hot enough that he can feel his skin turning lobster red, but he doesn’t move -- because he can also feel it sluicing him clean of last night and this morning, washing away the sweat and come and confusion, stripping him of the immediate touch-memory of Erik’s hands on his body and replacing it with this, the percussion of this land’s wild nature.

He stands there for as long as he can, but eventually he has to step out of the flow to get enough air to breathe; out of the waterfall the morning air feels like a cold slap, and Charles shivers, skin tingling and nipples tightening in the chill.

“Come here,” Erik says. He’s sitting up now, watching Charles intently from the other side of the bath. It’s so quiet up here that Erik’s voice is startlingly loud, even though he speaks at a normal volume.

Charles looks at him for a long moment, trying to read his expression. “Why?”

“Because I want to kiss you.”

Not the answer Charles was expecting. He tenses all over, waiting for the punchline, but when Erik doesn’t say anything further he decides -- so far, Erik hasn’t hurt him physically. It’s unlikely he’s going to start right this minute, and they have a very long time ahead of them to be married, Gods willing. Charles wades slowly over to where Erik is sitting, the water swishing around his chest, then rising to his chin when he sits down on the bench. It’s only as high as Erik’s collarbone -- clearly this bench was made for taller people than Charles.

Charles waits, looking up at Erik beside him, ignoring the fast beat of his heart in his throat. Erik touches Charles’s cheek with hot fingertips, brushing away a bead of water that trickles down from Charles’s soaked hair. When he kisses him it’s oddly gentle, as if Erik is testing Charles’s reaction.

At first Charles doesn’t reciprocate, just waiting to see what Erik wants; but when Erik doesn’t push further, just kisses him, mouths barely open, lips parted, Charles leans into him a little and tries to copy what Erik is doing, moving his lips so Erik can take Charles’ lower one between his own and tug on it, gently, the hand cradling Charles’ head not demanding, just there and warm on the side of his face.

It’s so -- it’s nice, feels nice, but bizarre, to be sitting chin-deep in a pool outdoors, being kissed by an alpha who doesn’t even like him, or at least, says nothing that suggests he does. Charles can’t work it out. It’s not as though he’s been so charming that Erik has had a reason to change his mind about Charles. But still, here they are, kissing as though there’s nowhere else Erik has or wants to be, licking at Charles’ lip until Charles lets him in.

Erik looks pleased when he draws away a few minutes later - though he doesn’t go far; his nose is almost brushing Charles’s still. “You’re quick,” he says.

Charles gives Erik the side-eye, dubious, but doesn’t pull away. “You mean a quick study?”

Erik nods, and Charles relaxes a little, closing his eyes for a long beat before looking up at Erik again, meeting his gaze. Cautiously, watching for Erik’s reaction, Charles resorts to the response his mother gave him for these situations. “I’m glad I please you.” The ‘your Grace’ goes unspoken.

Any emotion that had been showing on Erik’s face a moment before is suddenly wiped away and Erik is reverted to the cold, expressionless man Charles met his first day in the North. “Yes,” he says, almost briskly. “I’m sure you are.” His hand drops from Charles’s cheek and Erik stands, holding his arm out for Charles in a formal gesture that seems completely out of place given their nudity. “I have business to attend to,” he says.

 _There it is,_ Charles thinks, taking Erik’s hand and allowing himself to be drawn to his feet, the water slipping away down his chest as cleanly as Erik’s warmth. Clearly Erik had been looking for some other response, and when he didn’t get what he wanted, the little game was over. It’s not surprising, but a small part of Charles regrets the end of the affectionate interlude, no matter how artificial.

“Is there a study I could use to write some letters?” he asks, following compliantly after Erik when he’s tugged back toward the far end of the pool and the steps that lead out of the water. “Or a sitting room, perhaps?”

“Of course,” Erik says, taking a towel from a small stack that Charles hadn’t noticed before, sitting on a table near the entrance, and wrapping it around his narrow hips. “There are several. Would you prefer privacy, warmth, or a view?”

Charles picks up his shirt from where he discarded it earlier and takes a towel for himself, running it quickly down his chest and legs before following suit. “If I can keep it, then warmth, please. It’ll make most sense in winter. If not, any will do.”

“There’s a small library near our rooms,” Erik says. “It’s directly aligned with the main heating pipe. As I said, privacy will be an issue: the servants clean frequently, and I will need to use it for its intended purpose from time to time. Otherwise, it is yours if you want it.”

The problem is, what Charles really needs is a room of his own that he can lock, but saying no to the offer will only make Erik wonder what he has to hide; then, even if he did get a private room, he has no doubt Erik would use his Gift to unlock it at will and snoop through Charles’ things. It’s what he’d do, were their positions reversed.

He pretends to consider, but there’s really only one way to answer without raising suspicion, so after a pause Charles says, “That would be fine. Thank you, Erik.” On gut instinct he leans up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Erik’s cheek, brief but outwardly sincere, then slips past before Erik can react, through the door and down the stairs to go back inside.

 

~*~

 

The library proves to be a medium-sized room just down the hall from the master bedroom, comfortably appointed with two tables and four chairs, along with one wall entirely lined with books on law and agriculture -- a treasure in and of itself, when many nobles barely read at all -- and the other with large maps of the kingdom and its neighbours stretched and framed upon it; there are no windows, which if Charles has his bearings is because the room backs directly into the mountainside. It’s very warm, as promised, and Charles wonders with sudden interest if the water that runs down the pipe into the castle is the same as went into the pool on the roof, or if they are different streams. Not that it matters, but it’s an intriguing system.

One table is occupied by a pile of miscellanea; old parchment, a horn inkwell and a dented helmet all share space with several Royal decrees, each with scrawled notations in what Charles can only assume is Erik’s hand, as well as a few scattered iron trinkets, misshapen and unformed. Clearly this is a space that Erik uses often, which makes it less than ideal as a long-term study for Charles to work in. If he’s to direct his campaign purely by letter, then those letters need to be written and kept in a place where he will not be disturbed or intruded upon.

Still, it’s a pleasant enough room for the time being, and Charles settles himself at the empty desk with parchment and the purloined inkwell, along with his own quill, ready to write.

For the longest time he is uncertain of where to begin. He doesn’t want Raven to worry, but she is the one person he is always honest with, and now that they are so far apart it would be so easy to lie, or to omit things that he would rather not admit to, and for that to grow into true distance. In the end, however, Charles realises that if he delays too long he won’t get it written at all, and so begins:

 

_My dearest sister,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and hard at your studies in Hammer Bay, and not missing Westchester or worrying overly much about me. As you might assume from the date at the top of my letter, I am now a married omega (of one day and counting) and ensconced in my new home at Ironhold._

_It is, as you might expect, very cold up here in the north, and they call this summer, so I dread to think of what it will be like in winter. The castle however is heated by a hot spring, so as long as I stay indoors for six months of the year I should be able to keep all my fingers and toes attached to my body. You wouldn’t believe the landscape here -- it’s like something out of an old ballad. I daren’t even try to describe it to you, so instead I will try to complete some sketches for you to send in my next letter, as I do not have time enough before Cain departs to include them with this missive._

_My husband is, so far, an honourable man, if rather stoic and prone to temper, I suspect. Certainly he does not have a high opinion of Southerners, or of Southern omegas, but he has not treated me poorly other than to be rather rude at times, which I can live with. Just consider: I could have been forced to marry Cain. My new situation, I will admit, is an improvement upon that evil possibility._

Charles pauses in his writing, moving the tip of his quill aside just in time to avoid its dripping on the page. How much to tell Raven … well, if he tells her that Erik called Charles a whore, then she would be riding north in arms within the hour of reading his letter, a sword in each hand and one between her teeth. And he does not think it wise to disclose Erik’s true ancestry on paper, even to his sister. So instead, he continues:

 

_I expect I will become used to him, and to my marital duties, in due time. In any case, I should have enough freedom to continue writing to you, as Erik does not object to it, as we both hoped he would not. Another improvement over life with Kurt and Cain._

_Please write and let me know how you progress, and all the gossip of the capital. Who is sleeping with whom, who is feuding, which families are seeking alliances and which are not. It is of vital importance that you continue to update me on these things, so that I may not be cut entirely out of the loop. I suspect I shall receive little other news out here on the border, so anything you can send me, however outdated it will be by the time it reaches me, will be appreciated!_

_As I am aware that my Westchester escort is due to be leaving very soon, I will cut this letter short, but please find me your most affectionate brother,_

_-C_

_p.s. as of this moment in time I have seen no wolves, nor any terrible snowbeasts, though I did spy a red fox from my window yesterday. I will of course keep you apprised if this changes, as I know how much you love tall tales of wild things._

 

 

The postscript, of course, is a code; Charles has not encountered any particular restrictions or enemies so far, but he has met a potentially dangerous third-party who may or may not prove a threat. The colour of the fox, handfasting red, identifies the fox as being his husband. They had agreed the code in advance of his journey to the north; Charles only hopes Raven remembers what each animal means enough to interpret what he has written.

Charles folds the parchment and digs out a small chunk of red wax from the detritus on Erik’s desk, then seals the letter, marking it with his signet ring before sitting back to wait for it to set. He’ll have to ask the steward for some blue, as befits an omega, and perhaps he should commission a new signet, with the House Lehnsherr sigil, for more official correspondence.

He’s just testing the edge of the wax with his fingernail to see if it’s hardened when he feels the mind approaching him along the corridor, and Charles barely manages to stay in his seat long enough for Cain to come in, forcefully and without knocking, a smug, unpleasant look on his face and a prurient consideration in his thoughts that makes Charles feel rather nauseous.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Cain says, tucking his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches and strolling into the room as though he is lord here, glancing around himself and taking the library in. “I had rather expected you still to be on your back, Charles. But I suppose even the Iron Duke needs to escape from your presence from time to time.”

Charles gets up from the desk slowly, but raises his chin and squares his shoulders once he’s on his feet, resting his fingertips on the tabletop, making sure his posture is open and unafraid. Brutes like Cain respond more to body language than to words. “You’re not allowed in here,” he says. “And you have no right to be, either.”

Cain snorts. “Oh, stop your yammering. I’m merely come to check on my dear stepbrother and make sure his new husband hasn’t made a mess of him already. Your mother will want a report when I get back, and you know I don’t like lying to her.”

Wandering over to the map, Cain takes a comfortable stance there as though he’s really examining it, though Charles can hear him thinking about what he knows happened between Charles and Erik last night. “Did you have any messages for me to take home?” Cain asks, almost absently, his mind full of jealous filth.

The thing is, had Charles not manipulated his mother into forbidding it, and Kurt into deciding that the best place for a clever omega like Charles was as far away from Westchester as possible, it was entirely likely that he would have been married off to Cain, and both of them know it. It would even have made a sordid sort of sense, in purely practical terms; securing the Marko and Xavier family lines together, keeping Charles’ dowry in the family treasury instead of in someone else’s pockets, and preventing every other noble family that Kurt aspired to from turning Cain down for marriage to their omegas as being too crass and too ignoble of birth.

If Charles hadn’t prevented it, it would have been their wedding night last night, and Cain has clearly been prompted by yesterday’s wedding into thinking about it again in the most unpleasant way possible for a telepath; months of knowing Charles was not to be his has not dulled the edge of his imagination, nor has the simmering resentment he felt at not getting his way receded. Instead it has only deepened, hardened, like coal into diamond, and reflected more and more of its spiteful light in his behaviour.

“Messages? No,” Charles says without moving from his position by the table, holding his ground. “Now, really, you need to fuck off. You’ve done your one and only duty in getting me to the priest, and handed me over to Erik, so I no longer need to have anything to do with you.”

“Erik now, is it?” Cain asks sharply, anger spiking, and almost snarls. “You got cosy fast. Though I suppose it is harder to scream ‘your Grace! your Grace!’ like a little whore when you’ve got your legs spread.”

“Mr. Marko,” a familiar baritone says from the open doorway. Charles glances round, surprised, and blanches; he hadn’t noticed Erik standing there and yet there he is, hands clasped behind his back, expression artfully blank. “I see you were able to locate the library without assistance.” Though his voice is even, Erik’s eyes are burningly cold, and Charles is starting to get the measure of his moods -- there’s a very strong chill in the air that has nothing to do with temperature. Charles shivers.

“Your Grace,” Cain replies stiffly.

A very thin smile stretches Erik’s lips. “I notice you’re very far from your rooms,” he says. “This part of the keep is strictly residential.”

Cain seems to recover a little of his confidence, and straightens to his full height, his own expression diffident now, dismissive. “Charles is my stepbrother, and I have a duty to see he’s well and behaving himself before I leave later today. We are all family now, after all, your honour is our honour, and so on.”

“I see,” Erik says. “And are you … satisfied?”

The look Cain gives Charles is so laced with spite that Charles only just keeps from shuddering. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of him,” Cain says, voice dry as tinder.

The smile on Erik’s face is almost sickly, now. “Indeed.” He glances toward Charles, though only for the briefest of moments before his gaze snaps back to Cain. “I suggest you make haste in your travels,” he says. “Despite the summer sun, we still have bandits on the roads near Falsenight. Among … other dangers.”

If Erik weren’t here, it would be easy for Charles to tell Cain just what he thinks of him, and to force Cain’s mind into taking him away; as it is, the thought of saying any of the things he wants to in front of Erik, whom he cannot manipulate into forgetting, is too humiliating. It’s bad enough his new husband has witnessed any of this old ritual.

So instead Charles says, “Travel safe,” and keeps his gaze firmly on Cain’s, staring him down. If he can keep Cain’s eyes on his face, perhaps he won’t notice the way Charles’ hands have curled into fists, white-knuckled and bloodless with loathing.

Cain snorts, but says, “Charles,” before turning to give Erik a semi-respectful nod, and finally, finally, leaving. The recession of his mind from Charles’ immediate area is a thorn pulled from Charles’ side.

Erik waits until Cain is well and gone before pushing the door shut behind him. He stays on the other side of the room, but even at this distance Charles can see that he’s let some of the blankness fade from his expression, revealing disgust in the curl of his lips and narrowing of his eyes. “I will see to it that your step-brother is never allowed past the Northern border again.”

Charles swallows down the lump that rises in his throat at this, and closes his eyes for a moment too long to pass off as a blink, before looking at his husband. “Thank you. That would be…” - he struggles to end the sentence, and settles on, “...prudent.”

“I find it a curiosity that he has survived to his age,” Erik says, as casual as if he were discussing some topic of philosophy. “It seems probable that someone would have stuck a knife in his throat by now.”

“Unfortunately I was sat too far away at table.” Charles really would like to sit down, but he feels too visibly vulnerable right now to risk conceding the height; he locks his knees and lets some of his weight rest on his hands where they’re still fisted atop the desk.

“Oh,” Erik says, lifting both eyebrows. “Well, I can always invite him to stay for dinner after all.”

Charles barks out a laugh, surprising even himself. “Thank you, but no. His safety secures my sister’s, and your alliance with my stepfather. He’s leaving, and that will have to be enough.”

He searches Erik’s face for a long moment, and again is frustrated by the inability to read him, to _know_ what Erik is thinking -- to have context behind the expression. Without it Erik could be thinking anything, from how pathetic Charles is to how bad a decision it was to marry into any family that includes Cain Marko. It’s so hard not to know! Why did Erik step in? Because he has genuine distaste for Cain’s behaviour, or because he is an alpha, staking his claim? Charles is more inclined the think the latter; certainly Erik has already shown himself to be possessive, whereas he has yet to really show his hand for any kind intent. It’s pathetic, really, how helpless Charles feels without his telepathy to tell him the truth about people.

“Were you looking for me?” he asks, changing the subject as smoothly as possible given what Erik has just witnessed. “I was hoping to give this letter to one of the Westchester guards before they go.”

Erik nods. “I’ve had breakfast brought up to our rooms for you,” he says. “You can give the letter to one of my alphas and they’ll forward it for you, if you like. They can be trusted with your privacy.”

“Is it really only breakfast time,” Charles murmurs, half to himself, still watching Erik warily, waiting for any kind of cue. It feels as though so much has happened already today that there cannot, surely, be time for more. “Thank you. Where can I find a guard to give it to?”

“There should be one stationed outside our rooms by now,” Erik says. “I don’t require it when I’m present -- metal, you understand -- but they keep out intruders in my absence. And now, if I am not there, they will protect you as well.”

Already raw, the declaration is enough to make Charles bristle, the back of his neck tingling as though his hair were spines, and he asks hotly, “Are they going to follow me everywhere I go, too?”

Erik looks faintly taken aback. “No. There are plenty of guards stationed throughout the keep; I can’t see why you would require an escort.”

“I don’t,” Charles says firmly, but with less heat, retreating from the fine edge of agitated fury and looking away, embarrassed. If he is fair, the only thing Erik has demanded of him so far is sex, and that at least Charles can admit is necessary for fulfilling his part in their marriage and producing an heir, and has been more enjoyable than Charles would have expected; and while Erik may think of him as a purchase, at least it appears that Erik is the sort of alpha who takes good care of his property. “I’ll just go and give this to the guard, then,” he says, and finally steps out from behind the table to head for the door. It requires him to walk past his husband, but Erik doesn’t move to stop him, and Charles slips out the door with a sense of relief.

 

~*~

 

_Erik_

_  
_

Charles had spoken at some length about the nature of alphas in the Southern provinces, but to be honest, Erik had not truly understood the weight of what he was saying until just now. Cain is -- for lack of a better word -- a brute. Every bit the savage that is depicted by stereotypes of Erik’s people, only he wears silks and velvets instead of wool and furs. And every bit the savage Charles seems to expect Erik to be. From what Charles and others had said, Erik had known the Southern alphas were controlling, but he’d imagined it more in the sense of restricting their spouses to needlework and gossiping with their little coteries of omegas-in-waiting. Not outright sadism. Perhaps that’s still true, perhaps there’s some gentility left in the world, but if Cain is the primary exemplar to which Charles has been exposed, then it’s no wonder he’s so skittish and hostile around Erik. He’s a wounded animal, growling because it thinks it’s backed into another corner. And to some degree he is: trapped between Erik and the impassible mountains and glaciers. He’ll lash out unpredictably, even at the hand which tries to feed.

There’s not much use for Erik’s anger (indignation is perhaps a more appropriate term, but Erik doesn’t think it fully encapsulates the vicious intensity of what he feels). Not here in the keep, with no nearby enemy that Erik can yet allow himself to attack. So he heads out. North, again, taking the narrow pass. He brings crampons with him, tying the spikes to the soles of his boots when he reaches the foot of the glacier and grabbing the sharpened stick he keeps here to balance his position as he steps out onto the ice.

The wind that blows off the ice is bitterly cold; it feels like winter already even though it’s August still, stinging his cheeks until he’s forced to pull his scarf from his pocket and wrap it twice around the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. At least he doesn’t tear up anymore. He was mocked for that when he was young, by the Frjáls children who had grown up in these elements. He’d get so angry when they said he was crying that he’d end up crying for real, anyway.

It takes another good hour to climb far enough up the glacier that he can see out past the mountains which block in the narrow pass. By now his frustration is dulled slightly, faded to a mere clenching feeling in his chest.

It’s not that he’s particularly eager to crusade for justice on Charles’s behalf or anything like that. But Erik’s never been one to tolerate prejudice. He’s witnessed too much of it against his own people to find it anything less than nauseating the way Cain treats Charles. The way Southerners treat their omegas in general.

Well. When Erik takes the South, he’ll resolve the problem of the Southern alphas just as he’s resolving Shaw. The Southerners only ever employ alphas in their armies, after all. And any noble-born wealthy enough to buy his or her way out was surely also wealthy enough to contribute to the financing of the Frjáls genocide -- or at least, to afford to sit idly by and watch it happen, doing nothing to stop it. They’ll face a tribunal alongside the rest of the survivors of Shaw’s government.

Erik rests here, far past the treeline, turning to gaze out over the lesser mountains and the valleys below. The river carrying its icy glacial runoff streams like a silver thread off the top of a mountain and then reappears again in the valley, curling through the black basalt hills. Ironhold isn’t visible from here, hidden by the mountain into which it was built, but Erik can see the great volcano that covered these fields in lava and ash just five years ago rising like a dusky shadow in the distance, an ever-present threat. They’d been forced to abandon Ironhold that day, fleeing east, outside the range of smoke. But even from the east, they’d been able to see it: a rumbling cloud of black crashing over the land like sea upon shore. Sparks lighting up the twilight sky. It was beautiful. And Erik knows it’s only a legend, that the explosions are the product of nesting dragons deep inside the earth -- but that doesn’t keep him from loving the way the warm black sand feels beneath his feet. It doesn’t diminish his affection for the igneous rock upon which his people’s lands are built.

They’re too far north, and too close to the volcano, for vegetation to thrive -- but in the far distance he can see green meadows and rolling hills, dotted here and there with villages and townships. Perhaps Erik should resent them, living in the land that rightfully belongs to his people, but he doesn’t. The people who live in the North were not in Shaw’s armies. They were not wealthy Southerners. They simply lived as best they could alongside their Frjáls neighbours, bloodlines intertwining here and there when Frjáls omegas would marry heiðnir alphas -- and when the atrocities began, many of them risked their lives hiding Frjálsmen in their cellars and attics and barns.

After several long minutes Erik turns to head further up the glacier, listing westward, toward the side of the mountain. There’s a stream of meltwater nearby, a brighter blue than the sky it seems. Erik kneels down and dips his head to drink from it, catching the water as it spills off a small break in the ice like a tiny fountain. It’s perfectly sweet and cold. Nothing like the lukewarm and earthy well-water they drink in the South.

He hears the crunch of her footsteps before he sees her. “What are you doing up here?” Magda asks from behind him, and when Erik turns she has her gloved thumbs tucked through her belt, just ahead of the heavy knives sheathed at either hip. “I had thought you got married today.”

“I did,” Erik says, rising up, only just now noticing how cold his knees had gotten against the ice. “He isn’t terribly eager for my company. I can’t say I feel much differently about his, myself.”

Magda snorts and looks away over the glacier, though it doesn’t hide the curl of satisfaction on her lips. “Is that so? You poor thing.”

In the breeze her long dark hair is like smoke blowing around her shoulders, and he thinks again of the ash spewing forth from the volcano, her black eyes like coals. It’s no secret that Magda long expected to marry Erik in due time, and that she disapproves of his marrying a Southerner. “What is it he objects to?” she asks.

“As I understand it, he objects to my being any kind of alpha at all,” Erik says, brow lifting. “He seems well and convinced that I’m just biding my time and plan to thoroughly brutalize him at some point or another. He also seems to be labouring under the delusion that he won’t be taken seriously unless he behaves belligerently.” He shrugs, shaking his head slightly. “He has the heart of a Frjáls, but all the other trappings of your typical Southern omega. He takes any communication as an insult or a threat or both.” He’s fairly certain his irritation is leaking into his tone: a quality he’s tried to extinguish in himself, though so far Charles has proven uniquely capable of resurrecting it.

Magda managed to remain silent throughout this speech, but her smile has vanished. “You like him,” she says, frowning. “For fuck’s sake, Erik! Of all the alpha things to do.” She folds her arms across her chest, adjusting her crampons in the ice and widening her stance. “Don’t try to lie to me, you know I can tell. You like that Southerner.”

Erik scowls; it’s easy to become angry again, when his rage about Cain Marko is still so fresh in his memory. “I said nothing of the sort,” he snaps. “He’s manipulative, he’s childish, and he’s a blackmailer. What is there to like?”

“You have said more about this Charles just now than you have ever said about any one person to me.” She’s clearly upset - her entire body is sharp and angular with tension, defensive, her fists clenched. “You _like him!_ After all your fine words, you use your dick as a guide instead of your head after all.”

“Or maybe I hate him,” Erik proposes, fighting the urge to launch into another diatribe. It would only serve to make Magda more certain of her point.

Erik thinks of Magda as something of a sister. They’ve slept together before, of course -- she is omega and he is alpha, and he cannot deny he finds her attractive both in body and personality, but he’s known for far too long that when he married, it must be to another. He couldn’t allow his feelings to develop into anything else, for both their sakes.

But whatever Erik thinks of Magda, she doesn’t think of him as anything resembling her brother. He expects her to come back with something sharp and snapping, to cut him down a peg or two, but what she says is, “That is also a lie. I’ve often heard of the way the Southerners treat their omegas, as have you - small wonder he expects no better from a ‘barbarian’. Of course you don’t hate him, not you, Erik, the White Knight of the North. No, I expect you want to win him over, _save_ him. Even if you will not admit it. Even if he does not need it! Hate him! Ha!” Her laugh is raw, bitter.

She steps back, one step, two, and for a moment it looks as though she is going to leave - the thought is all over her face - but then instead she walks forward again, past Erik close enough to brush past his cloak, and crouches at the side of the stream, reaching her hands into the water and cupping them together to draw a clear palmful to her mouth, the excess spilling down her wrists as she drinks. When she’s done she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and her voice when she speaks again is carefully neutral. “What’s this about blackmail?”

“He knows I’m Frjáls,” Erik says, some part of him untangling slightly, grateful to depart from the argument. “Apparently even in Westchester, they’ve heard of circumcision. I wasn’t aware discussions of Frjáls genitalia had joined the rumours of our savagery.”

If Erik thought she was stiff before, it’s nothing to the tension that runs through Magda’s body now - she stands abruptly and turns to face him, her hands slipping down to rest on the hilts of her knives, expression turning black. “We should kill him. He could ruin everything.”

Something sharp spikes through Erik’s blood. Magda’s unpredictable. If she thinks Charles should be dead, she’ll damn well see that it’s so, regardless of whether Erik agrees to do the deed himself or not.

“And run the risk that the next omega has heard the same tales? And what if they don’t try to strike a deal, but go straight to Shaw?” Erik shakes his head, trying to ignore the heat in his veins, and trying to pretend he isn’t using Charles’s very argument as his defense. “All Charles wants is to be treated like a Frjáls omega. It’s not too much for me to give. If he doesn’t betray me now, he won’t ever. Not without putting his own reputation on the line and risking a trial for treasonously withholding evidence.”

Magda’s mouth tightens. “You say you hate him? You’re defending him.” She turns away again, all but turning her back on Erik, and he knows it’s to hide her own feelings on the matter of his marriage -- he’s known her long enough to read that clearly enough, even if she tries to conceal it. “If you weren’t my King -- ”

“I know,” Erik says. His voice is softer, but no less firm. “Magda, you have to trust me to be able to handle my own omega. I won’t let this situation get out of control. You know that."

“I know you are an idiot,” she says. “Pretend all you want, but you like him, Erik. I know you. You wouldn’t care elsewise if he sassed you, you’d just put him away somewhere and get on. You’ll need to hide it better before the next gathering, or the others will say you’re turning towards your Southern blood.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Erik all but spits out, that irrational rage tearing itself back up his spine. “My mother was Frjáls. That makes me every bit as Frjáls as you, and any one of them!” The bloodline is passed matrilineally. No one would dare say a word about Erik’s father. Surely. “My mother married him to save this nation. She sacrificed her body to a heiðnir so the rest of you wouldn’t have to. Who my father was doesn’t matter to anyone but Southern trash!”

Magda turns back around to face him. “I know that. You know that. Everyone knows that, but it does not change the fact that if you go to the gather and everyone else sees what I see then they will be questioning your judgement, because you arranged your betrothal on the need to have children with one of them, nothing more. I’m not questioning your right to rule. I’m trying to help you keep it.”

His stomach churns and he forces himself to swallow against his bizarre urge to vomit. He misses the Magda he used to know, sometimes -- back when she was just Rakel and her parents had him look after her, how she never could sit still for longer than thirty seconds. Rakel, on the cusp of eighteen, slowly taking her shirt off and watching him with steady dark eyes. She’d joined the stríð sect a few months later and become Magda. It’s not so much that she’s changed as it is she’s become harder. Resistant. ...Mercenary.

“You really believe this, don’t you?” Erik says. “You really think I’d care for that - that pagan? He’s nineteen years old. Ludicrous.” He knows he needs a better argument than this -- knows he can construct one, can weave words so perfectly that Magda and anyone else would be practically falling over themselves to do his bidding. But right now, for some reason, the words will not come.

“A nineteen-year-old with ‘the heart of a Frjáls,’” Magda says simply.

“Jón son of Steinnun also has the heart of a Frjáls,” Erik points out, referencing the sixteen-year-old omega who has taken up the habit of trailing Magda all over the mountains, watching her practise and trying to mimic her moves. He came to live with the Frjálsmen after his mother died when he was in infancy.

“And he was born on the right side of the glacier, with his grandfathers both Frjáls, even if his grandmothers were not.” Magda sighs and makes a sharp gesture with her hand, flicking the argument away and letting out a sigh, composing herself with visible effort. “Enough. Enough of this. Did you come up on the glacier for anything other than to complain to me about things you know I cannot sympathise over, or are you done?”

Erik can’t quite quench the anger still simmering in his gut, but he tries to let it pass. “There is one other thing,” he says, taking a step closer to her. “About Charles. He’s a telepath.”

A long, silent pause follows, broken only by the far-off sound of shifting ice.

“You’re certain?” Magda asks, and this time she’s not inflamed, everything about her instead poised and focused.

“As certain as I can be without him telling me outright. He slipped, while he was asleep. Apparently the dragons’ protection of our minds does not extend so far as to protect us from the subtle bleeding of … sensations.”

“Well.” Her mouth twists, considering, brows rising. “That puts a different complexion on things. Leverage, certainly.”

Erik smiles, even if only just. “I did tell you I can handle him.”

She shakes her head, flicking her hand again, dismissive. “No, more than that. If you could still feel him that means he’s probably strong. And we could use strong, Erik, you know that.”

“I’m surprised he’s still living, if he’s that strong,” Erik murmurs, mostly to himself. “Living so close to the capital, why did Frost not seek him out?” Most of the telepaths had been killed with the rest of Erik’s people; the Frjáls have a much higher birth rate of Gifted children than any other population, and their Gifted are always much, much stronger. “Surely they did not believe that _all_ the intensely Gifted children must be Frjáls.”

“They don’t care, so long as the children are theirs,” Magda says. “Unless they’re telepaths. Erik, we could - I hate to say it, but we _could_ use him, if you really can get a handle on him, one that will hold. Forget what I said before. You should cultivate him as an ally. Even if it’s just for his traits, if he’s a strong telepath and it passes down.…”

Something in Erik flinches at the way Magda puts it, but he can’t deny she has a point. When he returns his people to their rightful lands, how much better would it be to return them with the dragon’s power running through their veins again? It’s just the idea of … well, of using Charles - or anyone, really - to _breed_ telepathy back into their race feels like nothing more than the other side of Shaw’s coin, when he attempted to kill it off. He can almost hear Charles’s voice in his head. _Broodmare._ Erik won’t deny that’s half of why he needs this marriage, but the implication still twists at him.

“I’m not sure he himself would cooperate with our efforts,” Erik says, carefully avoiding the topic of their potential future children. “But yes. It is worth cultivating.”

It’s as if putting things in such cold and mercenary terms has cooled Magda’s jealousy. She nods distractedly, petulance gone.

Erik clasps a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Good,” he says, and he consents to giving her an affectionate smile, even if he will never be able to offer her anything more than that. “I must head back. I have a meeting with Moira in a couple of hours. I’ll be placing her in Charles’s household staff and I want to be sure she’s been appropriately briefed.”

“All right.” Magda covers his hand with her own for a moment before stepping back, and without waiting for his permission she turns and strides away, pace easy and comfortable on the crampons from years of practice. “You know where to find me, Erik,” she calls over her shoulder, then ducks her head against the chill wind and walks on.

 

~*~

 

When Erik returns to his rooms Charles is curled up in the center of their bed, buried under layers of fur with his head tucked near his knees, fast asleep. Erik pauses for a long moment, watching as Charles’s slow exhale blows a strand of his hair along the skin of his cheek, before he turns and slips quietly out.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to the lovely **Subtilior** for taking a look at this chapter for us!

_Erik_

A week out from the wedding, things about the castle begin to fall back into their normal paces. Erik wakes early and fucks Charles in their bed, slow, their bodies grinding together as Charles only half-attempts to pull himself out of sleep. Then Charles goes to bathe and Erik goes out to the training fields, letting Logan put him through his paces alongside everybody else, until his arms and legs are both trembling and sweat is running in beads down his spine. Every day Logan pushes them just a little bit harder; Erik starts ordering the medics and physikers to wait in tents along the fields, ready to care for the unavoidable cases of dehydration and injury.

The turn of summer into autumn is the only time of year that training really starts to become dangerous. But better to lose a few men to Logan’s relentlessly long runs through the mountainous terrain than to lose dozens in warfare once winter comes and the training fields become all but impassable.

Nothing ever seems to quite take the edge off the exhaustion. Not bathing, not eating, not sleeping. Erik falls into an endless cycle of pushing himself until he almost breaks every morning, then forcing himself to go through the mundane tasks of reading missives and managing the Duchy and riding out to the closer towns, even when just putting one foot in front of the other feels an insurmountable task. He barely has energy left for Charles in the evenings before he sleeps, only to wake and do it all over again.

And yet, despite the exhaustion, all Erik’s senses are sharper than ever. The air is crisper in his lungs, silk feels smoother, water tastes sweeter. His body is barely hanging on, but his mind is soaring far above it, alert as if every day were a battle, his power a palpable thing that shudders just to feel the iron in the earth below their feet and singing in the blood of men. Like this, Erik thinks he could kill someone with their blood alone, and it’d barely require focus at all. He feels spread-out, knotted into the web of the world, not master of metals but a creature built of metal himself. He can feel the very throb of the universe when he stares up at the sun. Can perceive the invisible ties that bind people and objects and space together. He’s never had a word for this other sense, only that he knows somehow it connects to metal as well. It’s the same power that draws certain metals together and pushes others apart. The same power that crackles through the lightning that sears across the sky, sizzling in the false darkness laid down by black clouds when the storms come.

A storm like the one that is raging now, all that magnificent power beating itself through the air, striking up through the ground and into it and crackling in the tips of Erik’s fingers as he turns a page in his book, reading by lightning-fire alone. He’d rather be out _in_ the rain, feeling the bizarre lines drawn taut between metal and lightning, his power spread out so far that it criss-crosses back upon itself a hundred thousand times, a fractal design quivering in the space both within and around everything that exists. The thought alone is enough to make him quiver, and every clap of thunder exhilarates him, stealing another breath.

But going out into the storm strikes him as childish -- the kind of thing he would have done as an adolescent, fresh into his power, when he still couldn’t sense the entirety of it but knew enough to know he loved summer storms. So now he sits in his best library instead: the one on the top floor, taking up an entire wing almost just so Erik could have windows along two walls, gazing out into the whirling black, waiting for the inevitable white crack of lightning.

The sound of the door creaking open behind him is almost drowned out by the next rumble of thunder, and when Erik turns Charles is stood in the doorway staring at the windows, not seeming to have noticed him there at all; he’s frozen like a startled deer, only relaxing after a few seconds have passed. With the room unlit save for the lightning it’s not surprising that he doesn’t see Erik sitting sprawled out on his favourite sofa, and so when Charles finally moves it’s with an unconscious grace that he rarely displays when aware he’s being watched, coming deeper into the room and heading for one of the bookshelves.

Lightning flashes outside, and Charles lets out a yelp, sharp and high as though the sound was punched out of him; he flinches where he’s caught in the open, a figure illuminated in silhouette.

“Afraid of the storm?” Erik says only after several seconds have passed, speaking just loud enough to be heard, but not so loudly that his voice really competes with the clatter of rain against the windows.

“Fuck!” Charles jerks around to stare into the darkness, and it takes him a moment to focus on Erik - when he does his expression changes, as though he’s trying to hide his true feelings, but his nervousness still shows in the way his hands shake at his sides. “Erik! You - what are you _doing_ up here?”

“Reading,” Erik says, waving his book at Charles, though of course it’s rather obvious that’s just the excuse; he’s barely made any kind of progress at all in this light. “Same as you, I expect.” He smiles, just a bit. Seeing Charles has not at all diminished his sense of connectedness with the storm. Charles didn’t interrupt it -- he simply _joined_ it, the pulse of his own energy threading into the pattern alongside the rest of it.

It’s rare to see Charles in the evenings, actually, until Erik goes to bed; wherever it is he spends his time, it’s not with Erik. “I just came to fetch a book,” Charles says, his gaze turning back to the window like it’s been drawn on a string. “I don’t -- it’s so loud. I could hear it even down in the baths under the castle.” He’s showing a valiant front, but when the thunder rolls again, echoing between the mountains and drowning out all other sound, Charles jerks back away from the glass, eyes wide for the moment before he looks furious with himself, glancing over at Erik to see if he noticed.

Erik is still watching, of course, but he’s kept his face clean of any emotion. He can smell Charles’s scent, laced through with the storm’s energy and made sharper for it. “Come here,” Erik says -- and when Charles doesn’t seem to follow Erik sets his book aside on a table and pats the seat beside him.

If Charles was going to argue, the next lightning strike changes his mind; he flinches forcefully, then makes his way more quickly than he ever has before over to stand next to Erik, looking down at him. “What?” he asks.

“Sit,” Erik says, patting the cushion again, smiling too easily for the expression to be entirely innocent. The truth is, his body responds to the storm the same way it does to Charles’s touch; there’s no avoiding it, not with his ability, not with the strength of the storms that come at the tail end of summer.

Charles hesitates, stubbornness chasing his anxiety across his face, but after a moment he steps in closer and sits down as though he’s granting a favour, prim and stiff-limbed save for the trembling of his body. “What now?” he asks, hands folded awkwardly in his lap.

Erik rolls his eyes and answers his question simply by slipping an arm around Charles’s waist and tugging him in close. “See?” he says. “Better.”

The tip of Charles’ nose brushes along Erik’s cheek when he turns his head to look at Erik, cheeks darkening with a slow flush that Erik can feel with his Gift; he’s rigid in Erik’s arms for a long moment before he relaxes, slowly, settling into Erik’s hold. “Is it safe to be up here in the storm?” Charles asks, and, unexpectedly, one of his hands comes up to cover Erik’s, holding on tightly. “It sounds like it might tear the roof off, but you’re so calm. This can’t be normal.”

“It sounds worse than it is,” Erik says, trying not to overthink the warm weight of Charles’s hand atop his. “The thunder echoes off the mountain -- and off Ironhold itself, of course. Lightning is drawn to the keep, since it’s carved from very iron-rich rock.” Quickly, a beat later, he revises: “But we have a metal rod on the roof. Lightning strikes the rod, and its power flows down a wire connected to the rod and terminates at another metal rod we have buried in the ground. It keeps everyone inside the building safe. Everyone outside, too, for that matter.”

Charles inhales against Erik’s jaw -- scenting him, something Charles has never done before outside of sex. Quietly, as though the admission is a deep and soul-baring secret, Charles says, “We don’t have storms this strong down south. It’s frightening.”

“Yes,” Erik acknowledges, breathing shallowly, as if any movement might disturb Charles and make him want to leave. Magda was right, of course; he needs to cultivate him. He can’t simply fuck him and then forget about him. “But to someone with my Gift, it’s beautiful, too.” He lifts his hand from Charles’s knee, holding it in the air and feeling the waves of energy vibrating around his skin. A moment later a spark catches and then there’s his own tiny grasp of lightning, crackling between his fingertips and lighting the room in a silvery glow. “There,” he says, exhaling at last. “Look. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Oh!” Charles stares, transfixed, then slowly reaches out to touch, snatching his fingers back when the seed lightning snaps at him and hissing at the shock. “That’s amazing. I thought your power was with metal?”

“People do assume that, don’t they?” Erik says, grinning, and it takes a bit of focus to direct the lightning enough for it to snap out and light the candle nearby. But it works. “My power is more with … the quality metals have and its relation to certain forces in the world. I … can’t explain it. Not to someone who has never sensed it. But the power I use to move metal is the same power as is in the lightning. They are different forms of the same kind of energy.”

Outside the mountains roar with the next crash of thunder, and Charles yelps and jerks in Erik’s hold, gasping, hand squeezing tight around Erik’s where it still rests just under his navel. “I’m not a coward,” he says, though he’s shaking. “It’s just so loud.”

Erik lets the seed lightning vanish and wraps that arm around Charles as well, holding him close. “It’s fine,” he says, hand rubbing small circles on Charles’s back. “I know.”

Charles is tense and shaking but doesn’t so much pull away as press closer, taking comfort from Erik instead of holding himself aloof for once; he’s warm and solid against Erik’s side, leaning into him as though he’s the sort of omega that lets himself be embraced, rather than one that resists being held even through the night. He inhales deeply again, and it’s gratifying to think that despite Charles’ prickliness and stubbornness he still finds Erik’s scent soothing.

Not that Charles could find this sort of comfort anywhere else. He hasn’t left the castle at all, to Erik’s knowledge, since he arrived here. He seems to find the Northern climate and landscapes rather dangerous, but surely he’s sick of seeing nothing but stone walls day in and day out, with Erik the only familiar face. Here, far from everything he knows, Erik is all Charles has. Erik thinks that were he Charles, he’d die from the claustrophobic monotony of it all.

“We can ride out tomorrow, if you like,” Erik says suddenly, the idea coming to him on impulse. “If you follow the volcanic ridge east and then turn south, there is a rather impressive array of geysirs and sulphur beds. Very unique to the North.”

There’s a long pause, and Erik is ready for Charles to reject the offer -- expects it, really -- but then Charles makes an interested noise, tipping his head back a little so that it rests on Erik’s shoulder and he can look up at him. The candlelight makes his freckles stand out like constellations across his nose and cheeks, fine and speckled; the look in his eyes is measuring, and Charles inspects Erik’s face like he’s weighing his sincerity before finally he says, “All right.” He doesn’t smile, but his body relaxes a little more, trusting Erik to hold him. “That would be … that would be good.”

  

~*~

 

They leave early in the morning, with Erik only attending the first half of Logan’s increasingly insane training program before slipping off for a quick bath and then to the kitchens to have the cooks assemble enough food to last them until dinner. There’s a jar of fermented lamb, bread and cheese, gravlax, some strawberry wine imported from Charles’s home region, and a cloth packet of salted fish. Hardly feast fare, but it’s a sight better than anything Erik’s ever eaten any time he’s ever had to go riding out overnight, with the army or otherwise. The servants clearly either like Charles, or greatly fear him. Erik strongly suspects the former; Charles’s attempts to intimidate, he suspects, are focused on his husband alone.

Erik packs the food away in the saddlebags on Charles’s horse, stocking those of his own stallion with water and knives. (After all, it is as Erik told Cain: bandits.) He’s just finishing up when Charles arrives, a heavy fur cloak folded over his arm and dressed in worn, weathered breeches and shirt, all made of plain but clearly expensive material. He has to juggle the cloak from arm to arm as he tugs a thick woollen jerkin over the top of his shirt, and when his head emerges from the neck of the jerkin his hair is mussed, but instead of fussing over it Charles simply crosses to his own gelding and holds out his hand for the horse to smell then lip at, stroking his free hand down the chestnut horse’s neck.

“Does he have a name?” Charles asks, tossing the cloak over the horse’s back and moving to inspect the girth and stirrups and adjusting them a little shorter.

“Þýður,” Erik says. “It means soft. Or smooth.” He gestures, trying to explain his meaning, frowning slightly. “As in … smooth gait. He’s one of our best horses for travel; he doesn’t tire easily.”

His own horse is a large black stallion -- also purchased through trade with the South, as the horses native to the North could better be described as “ponies.” Erik pats it twice in the neck and says: “This one’s Skyggnir. It means ‘cloud horse.’ Because he’s so fast.” The corner of Erik’s lips quirk upward and he swings himself up into his saddle, taking the reins when the stable boy hands them up to him. It’s making the assumption that Charles can ride, which Erik has no idea if he can or cannot, but he’d rather err on the side of seeming to think Charles competent than treating him too gently and risking offense.

“Þýður,” Charles repeats, but the way he says it makes it sound more like _Feedore_. “All right. Hold him for a moment?” he asks the stable boy, and shoots the lad a grateful smile before setting his hands on the saddle and hoisting himself easily up, left foot catching the stirrup and right leg pivoting over Þýður’s back until he’s sat high and evidently comfortable.

Erik nods, trying not to let it show that he’s faintly impressed, and nudges Skyggnir to turn and start leading the way down the road through the town. After a little while he hangs back to ride alongside Charles, both of them taking a slow gait through the crowded areas.

“He suits you,” Erik says, tipping his head down at Charles’s horse.

“He’s a good horse,” Charles replies, but he smiles, just a little. “He reminds me of my horse in Westchester. Raven and I used to ride often, before she went away to school.”

“I did think you seemed remarkably at-home up there.” Erik angles his horse out of the way of a woman’s cheese cart. The horses’ iron shoes clang a bit off the cobblestones, at least, which makes most of the townspeople take alert to their presence and unconsciously form a path; most don’t even seem to notice that they’re making way for the Duke and his new omega, too caught up in their own errands.

Charles shrugs; he barely seems to be using the reins, steering instead with his knees. “Most Southern nobles ride, alphas, betas, and omegas alike. Though only alphas and betas go hunting. Raven and I used to go for long rambles through the orchards and fields and down to the sea, sometimes.”

“You like the sea?” Erik asks. “And what did you think of our sea?” Because surely Charles’s party passed it, at least once or twice, on their way north. The North has plenty of lakes and rivers, but Erik’s always been particularly impressed by the sea.

“Much like everything else up here,” Charles says, voice wry, “it wants to start a fight with anything that moves.”

Erik makes a small, amused sound and nudges his horse to turn onto a side road, heading out of town. “Not always,” he says. “Mostly I agree with you, yes, but find the places where the glaciers meet the ocean and you will find true beauty. And quiet.” Small lagoons of seawater carrying bright blue or white chunks of freshwater ice out toward the horizon, large icebergs drifting so slow, so stately, that it is impossible to notice their movement.

“I’d like to see that.” They ride in silence for a while; the clatter of the market quiets behind them, the crowded streets thinning out until they’re moving between houses rather than shops, laundry hung to dry from windows and children playing in the streets. After a while Charles asks, “How far are we going today?”

“It’s several hours out,” Erik says. “Once we’re clear of the town we can gallop at intervals, as long as the horses can handle it, at least. That should cut us down to two hours to arrive. Four hours to return; I’m planning a different route back.” So far, much of what Charles has seen of the North has been fairly forbidding; Erik plans to lead him through the hills and mountains further away from the volcanoes, where the meadows are still green and flowering with sedges and violets.

Charles nods, not protesting at the distance; he’s clearly as at ease on horseback as he claims, and he keeps up effortlessly with Erik, looking around curiously at the scenery as they pass out of town and into the surrounding farmland. His blue eyes are keen and interested, and by the time they’re half an hour out it’s clear he’s more comfortable now with Erik than he has ever been before, though he makes no conversation. It seems as if taking him on an outing was a good choice.

So Erik leads him along the road -- if it can be called that, given that it’s little more than a path formed by horses and carts repeatedly choosing this route to get to various destinations -- primarily in silence, letting Charles take in the starkness of the landscape. It was empty-seeming even when Erik was a child, before the most recent great eruption. But now, the road they take turns to head straight through the lava fields, leaving scrub brush and small trees behind. After an hour the path disappears altogether and the horses are forced to slow to a trot to navigate the uneven rock beneath their hooves. Several years ago one could still get caught in an ash-mist when the wind arose, but by now the ash has all been blown out to sea or stamped into the rock, leaving it shiny and black and spiraling in odd geometric shapes where the liquid fire became solid.

“What is this place?” Charles asks, his voice loud in the empty air, swaying carefully from side to side as they pick their way across a wide, smooth section where the lava flow must have set almost instantly, the ripples still visible in its surface. “It’s so … bleak. Dead.”

“You see that mountain?” Erik says, twisting in his saddle to point at one of the to their right and behind. “The one with the misshapen tip? That’s Svartnorðeldfjall, one of the most active volcanoes in this range. It erupted five years ago and this entire area was flooded with ash and lava. It destroyed all the farms around here; in the past its lava flow had always gone east, so people assumed ….” Erik shrugs. “Everyone was evacuated in time, which is the most important thing. Closer to the geysirs you can see some of the large boulders that used to be part of the caldera. What the horses are walking on now is solidified lava.”

“And people live here anyway?” A pause, then Charles suddenly looks concerned. “Is there any risk to Ironhold, if the volcano erupts again?”

“Not anymore,” Erik says, quirking a brow. “As for Ironhold - well, yes, of a sort. It’s too far away for the lava to do any damage, but the ash plume is the real danger. It will suffocate a man, if it doesn’t bury him alive first. If the volcano seems like it will erupt again, we’ll evacuate to safety and wait it out. It only ever lasts a week or two at most.”

Charles shakes his head, letting out a long, low whistle. “That’s mad.” Unlike last night, however, he doesn’t seem scared -- just incredulous.

“I can always tell when an eruption is coming,” Erik says. “Too many metals shifting in the earth. I sense it.”

They have to lean backwards in their saddles to descend the next slope, swaying from side to side as the horses slip a little on the loose rock. Charles is looking at Erik though, head tilted slightly to one side. “That’s really interesting,” he says, tapping his fingers against his saddle horn. “Did you have to learn how, or did you just know?”

“My power presented itself when I was eleven,” Erik says. “Pretty typical for most Gifts, excepting physical alterations and some cases of telepathy, of course. At first I could only feel ferrous metals. I had to practise expanding my range to get to the point that I could sense metals deep underground, and practise further still until I could sense the bindings between all things. By the time the volcano erupted, I had long been capable of interpreting that kind of information and making it practical knowledge.”

Erik watches Charles very carefully throughout his answer, and at the mention of telepathy Charles stiffens just a little in his saddle, not enough to catch without looking for it but noticeable nonetheless, though his expression stays the same. “That sounds very useful,” Charles says, and even his voice is the same as before, a perfect act concealing his reaction to Erik’s words. It’s a sharp reminder of how good Charles is at deception when he chooses to be. The way he acts most of the time, it’d be easy to assume he always wears his thoughts so openly. “My sister is Gifted, too. She shape-shifts.”

“A magnificent ability,” Erik says, smiling. “I find physical Gifts … quite striking. It’s a pity so many feel the urge to cover themselves with cosmetics.”

Charles hums, and this time his smile feels genuine as well as looks it. “Not Raven. She’s blue and scaled whenever she pleases. Kurt used to try to force her to hide, but he daren’t hurt her now that she’s almost in her majority.”

“She sounds beautiful,” Erik says. A bold statement to make about one’s husband’s sister, but it’s honest.

But Charles just nods. “She is. If she were omega, alphas would pay Kurt to have her, instead of taking a dowry. As it is, I like her better as an alpha. She has her own mind and the agency with which to use it.”

“Speaking of dowries,” Erik says, remembering something he’d meant to tell Charles earlier on. “I don’t believe in them. Yours is in the ducal treasury, where Cain left it, but I’ve had Janos make special note that no one is to access it for any purpose but you. If you’d prefer to invest it or need to get into the treasury, just let me know. It’s lockless.” One of the first renovations Erik made, when his father died and Erik became Duke.

Charles’ expression is a startled one, his lips parted in an ‘o’ of surprise; he doesn’t make any response for a long couple of minutes, by which time they have crossed out of the lava field and into the scrubland just beyond it, where sere grasses and thick mosses have reestablished themselves.

“That’s -- very kind of you,” Charles says eventually, the strong breeze ruffling his hair and leaving his cheeks pinked. Together with the unreserved gratitude on his face it makes him look both too young and too beautiful, all his prickliness swept away at once. “Thank you.”

Erik fights down the desire to let it get to him, the way Charles seems in moments like these. Has to remind himself that it’ll pass. That even if it didn’t pass, Charles is not his _sálufélaga_ , as the kennari would put it -- his soul’s bond, his fated one. Because he is not Frjáls, he could never be. Not that Erik really ever put much stock in that sort of thing, but the point is still worth remembering: Charles isn’t one of them. He doesn’t care about the one thing Erik cares about above all else. And because of that, there will never be anything more between them than what there is right now.

So Erik just shrugs one shoulder and says: “That’s not necessary. Don’t thank me for living up to my own standards.”

“Still,” Charles says, looking away at last and freeing Erik from his gaze, “Still. Thank you.”

The niceties of the South, Erik thinks, they may never entirely overcome. They fall into silence again for a while after that, riding through the low fields until the soil turns from black to dust and pebble. “We’re almost there,” Erik says. “Five minutes, if we go at speed.” He glances toward Charles, who nods and leans forward over the neck of his horse as he presses his knees into the horse’s ribs. Both of them break into a gallop, horses kicking up dust behind them, Erik leading them away from the mountain range and out into the hills instead.

He can smell it long before he sees it and reaches out to touch Charles’s arm, signaling him to slow down as Erik does, into a canter and then a trot. They dismount near a small, mangled tree and Erik loops the reins around the trunk, taking the time to get water out of the saddlebags and fill a pail for the two horses to drink from while they wait.

At first, the land just looks oddly flat given the surroundings. Flat and dry, except for odd patches where the dirt has gone wet and muddy. When they get closer they can see the steam rising up out of the earth and can see the mud is nothing like what one would see after rainfall: it’s blue, and _boiling_ in the ground.

“Don’t get too close,” Erik warns. “Any one of them could go off at any time. That one over there, though -- ” he points, “ -- that’s the big one.”

Charles’ head turns, following Erik’s finger toward the largest mud pool, and with only a brief glance at Erik he skirts around toward it, curiosity in every line of his body. Erik thinks he must be hot, in all those layers -- the steam that comes from the geysirs makes the air around them sweaty and thick.

“It smells like burning dog,” Charles calls back to Erik, hand cupped around his mouth and sounding both disgusted and amused. “Like burning fur and wet dog at the same time. How often does it go off?”

“It doesn’t run by schedule,” Erik says, raising his voice in turn to be heard over the distance and the constant bubble of the geysirs. “The large one, perhaps once every forty-five minutes or so. These others, multiple times an hour.” He walks round the periphery of the geysirs toward his husband, though he takes his time, looking at each one closely to see if any are close to eruption.

“I wonder what makes it come out of the ground so hot?” Charles takes a small step closer, and Erik has to grab his arm and drag him forcibly backwards a split second before the geysir explodes out of the ground, a giant fountain of boiling water shooting up into the sky in a long arc that spatters the dry, cracked mud all around the outside of the pools and hisses like an overfilled kettle.

“Gods’ balls!” Charles shouts, head tipping back to take it in as he practically falls on his ass, held up primarily by Erik’s grip on his arm. He’s grinning, wide and delighted despite nearly getting himself cooked alive. “That’s terrific!”

“I thought you’d like it,” Erik says, though he isn’t quite able to bring himself to loosen his grasp of Charles’s arm, not when his heart is still racing so fast.

The water slaps back onto the ground with a hiss of steam, and the pool settles again, disturbed only by the constant roiling of escaping heat. When nothing further happens Charles tugs free of Erik’s grip and heads over to one of the smaller pools, standing well back this time. When he strips off his jerkin his white shirt is damp, too, and sticking to his skin, sweaty and coming untucked at the back from the waistband of his breeches.

“Do you know what makes the mud such an odd colour?” Charles asks, his voice breaking through Erik’s distraction and drawing his eyes back to Charles’ expression, which is earnestly curious. “I can see why the geysirs happen, the volcano must heat the water underground, but why is the mud blue?”

“The red, there - “ Erik points “ - is from iron.” He can sense it, heavy and rich, painted in vibrant swaths across his awareness. “I don’t know what causes the blue, though. No one does. There are various legends, of course, but nothing that seems particularly plausible.” There must be things besides metal which exist in the earth, things Erik cannot sense, but he doesn’t know what they are. He can’t study something he can neither see nor feel.

Charles just nods absently, wandering a little further, towards another pool. Erik trails along behind, most of his senses still steeping in the wealth of iron that has settled so close to the earth’s surface in this place. He’s seen all of this before, of course, smaller earthquakes and eruptions, but to his Gift it still manages to be strikingly novel each time. The tremors of the earth have never frightened him the way they do others. He feels intimately connected with them in his own way, all that molten metal as much a part of him as his own skin and bones.

There are two more eruptions while they’re there, from the smaller pools - not as impressive, but Charles seems delighted and fascinated anyway by the plumes of steam and water, though he stays further back from the edge than before.

Eventually they come around full circle to where they started, and Charles turns to look at Erik, smiling tentatively. “Thank you,” he says, pushing his damp hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I know you have other, better claims on your time than this.”

Erik looks away, directing his gaze back toward their horses and trying not to show any emotion on his face; he’s not sure what he feels, exactly, but Charles is acting far too benevolently for Erik not to be at least a little suspicious. “I ride out every day to check on some of the towns and to search for bandits,” he says, looking back toward Charles only when he’s certain he can keep himself neutral. “It’s no great imposition to take you with me.”

Charles’ smile falters. He lowers his hand slowly. “Ah. Very practical.” He seems to notice all of a sudden his untucked shirt and mussed hair, and sets to straightening himself up, tucking his shirt back in and brushing the dust from his breeches.

Erik shakes his head, hoping to assuage Charles’s anxieties. “Attacking travelers with non-metal weaponry still seems to be beyond anyone’s capacity, it seems, so I tend to make short work of them. You’re not in danger.”

“Of course not.” Charles looks away, then turns and heads over to where the horses are tied up. “We should move along if you’re to get your circuit done.”

And Charles seems to have reverted back to his typical self, Erik notes. Well. He supposes he knows better than to be surprised. He puts away the horses’ empty water bowls and then pulls himself back up into his own saddle. Waiting for Charles to do the same, Skyggnir is already restless beneath him, stamping his hooves on the ground and jerking his head toward the western horizon.

“ _Calm down,_ ” Erik whispers to the horse in his own language; its syllables are softer, he thinks - more soothing. “We’ll ride toward those mountains over there,” Erik says, pointing. “At least an hour’s gallop, and then we turn north. Yes?”

A shrug, and a creak of leather as Charles shifts in his saddle, not looking at Erik, adjusting his grip on the reins. “I’ll assume you know where we’re going, so. Lead the way.”

Erik manages to conceal his eye roll from Charles and snaps his reins against Skyggnir’s neck. The horse breaks into a trot, and then a canter, galloping only after Erik has nudged the heels of his feet into his sides.

It’s past midday, and yet the air seems colder than it was when they set out this morning; the wind bites at the tips of Erik’s ears as they ride, stinging until at last they simply go numb. It’s nearly fall. For now the flowers still bloom, purple and golden on the meadows, but soon the petals will fall and all the world will creak slowly into dusk. Night by night, and day by day, the sun spirals lower toward the horizon. Soon they will be seeing sunsets again. Now, at midday, the sun is bright, but Falsenight will bring bitter cold and near-twilight hues.

The sound of hooves on the hard-packed dirt and loose rock is hypnotic, and Erik has to focus to keep his concentration sharply on the horizon, watching out for signs of trouble. So it takes him too long to react, when that rhythm breaks. There’s an off-beat _clop_ right before a grind of stone-on-stone, and then Charles says, “ _Fuck -- !_ ”

Erik turns too late, and his heart stops in his chest. Charles is thrown forward over his falling horse’s neck like he’s been jerked loose by some giant hand, slamming into the ground with a sickening thud; Þýður must have tripped, because the horse falls in a flurry of hooves, whinnying in distress and narrowly missing kicking Charles in the back.

It all happens in seconds. Charles is sprawled on his side, like a broken doll, face away from Erik, and he doesn’t move for what feels like years, just long enough for horror to start swelling in Erik’s gut where he’s frozen in his saddle -- but then Charles shifts, groaning, shoving himself up to sitting with both hands braced on the ground and covered in dust.

Erik swings off his saddle and is kneeling in the dirt beside Charles a second later, already reaching out and brushing black silt from Charles’s arms and cheeks, ostensibly to clean him up but also to check for sore places, anywhere Charles could have hurt himself. “Are you all right?” Even once he’s sure Charles isn’t wounded, he can’t quite bring his hands away from Charles’s shoulders. There’s a long graze on Charles’ jaw, rough and raw.

Charles winces, flexing his right wrist as though it’s tender; his palms are grazed too, beading blood, and his breathing is shallow, winded from impact. He’s leaning heavily against Erik’s hands, letting Erik hold his weight. “I don’t think anything’s broken,” he says, and runs his tongue gingerly across the center of his lower lip where he must have caught it with his teeth. “Þýður stumbled on something - is he all right?” He cranes his neck to look past Erik at his horse.

Erik turns to look at Þýður, his right hand rising to cup the back of Charles’s neck, somehow needing the reassurance of that contact even as he smooths his left hand along Þýður’s flank. “Twisted his ankle, it looks like,” Erik says after a second. “He’ll be all right, but he isn’t going to make it all the way back to Ironhold. We need to find a settlement where he can rest for a few days.”

“It’ll be a long walk then,” Charles says, sounding resigned. He still hasn’t pulled back from Erik’s touch, heavy and warm in his arms. The soft curls at his nape are brushing against Erik’s hand. “Are they likely to have a horse I can borrow in the meantime?”

“I doubt it,” Erik says. “This far out, any horses you find are workhorses. The villagers need them for their livelihoods.” He gives Charles a second glance, though, his attention lingering too long on the way Charles still hasn’t flinched away. “For now, we can both ride my horse. I understand it’s not ideal, but it’s the only option.”

The wind whistles across the flat landscape, rustling the scrub brush, and Charles swallows, eyes dark as he watches Erik without blinking; then he lifts his hand to touch the graze on his face and finally says, “It’s fine.”

He pushes himself slowly to his feet, using Erik’s shoulders for support as he tests first one ankle, then the other. Behind Erik Þýður is getting up as well, making unhappy whuffing noises as he does. “Poor boy,” Charles says, reaching past Erik to stroke the horse’s neck.

It’s several miles to the nearest village; it’d be better if they’d had this problem further north, Erik thinks. Where it wouldn’t be as much trouble to simply tie Þýður to a rock and come back for him later. He doesn’t want to force Þýður to put any more strain on his ankle than is absolutely necessary. In wartime he might hope to push Þýður further than this, but it would be with the understanding that he’d be causing further injury. It’d be understanding that he’d lose the horse.

“Come on,” Erik says, getting back up on Skyggnir’s saddle and extending a hand toward Charles, kicking free of his stirrup and sliding back as far as he can, assuming Charles would want control of the reins (and to hold onto something _besides_ Erik’s waist).

Charles pauses first to pull Þýður’s reins forward over the horse’s head and pass them to Erik, but then he comes up to Erik’s side and takes Erik’s hand, stepping up into the stirrup and hoisting himself carefully over Skyggnir’s back. When he sits down between Erik and the saddle horn the space is so narrow that he’s pressed against Erik from shoulders to buttocks, his ass tight in against Erik’s crotch and cradled in the vee of Erik’s thighs.

It’s no closer than they’ve been before in bed, but they’ve never been this close outside of bed, either. Erik immediately tries to push the thought into the darkest recesses of his mind; somehow he doubts Charles detecting an erection pressing against the small of his back would do much for their relationship, marital or otherwise.

“Keep going in this direction,” Erik instructs Charles, tilting his head to one side so he’s not speaking directly to the back of Charles’s head. “Slowly, though.”

Charles simply nods, and nudges Skyggnir forward, taking Þýður’s reins from Erik and hooking them to the saddle so the lamed horse will follow.

 

 

~*~

_  
_

_Charles_

  

The wind against his front is bitterly cold, biting through his jerkin like it’s not even there, but against Charles’ back Erik’s body is a wall of heat, curled around him with arms around Charles’ waist and his knees tucked behind Charles’, strong and close. The way the saddle presses their hips together as they rock back and forth with the horse’s steps is obscene.

Charles watches the horizon with forced detachment, keeping his mind away from his aching body and on reaching their destination, but it’s difficult. After a morning where Erik had seemed to want to please, talking and smiling a little and showing Charles the geysirs, Charles’ resolve not to engage emotionally had been battered enough without sharing a saddle. And now, here they are; Charles bruised and sore, of necessity tucked in close to Erik, deep in his scent and comforted in his pains by their nearness.

Erik’s breath on the side of Charles’ neck is warm and damp, brushing against the lobe of his ear like a caress.

“How long do you think it will take to reach the village?” Charles asks to distract himself as they ride into the first of the small foothills that lead up to the far-off mountains.

“An hour. Maybe two.” Erik’s hands shift on Charles’s stomach, moving more toward his hips. “We can stop to eat if you’re hungry.”

Charles shakes his head. “No, I’m all right. I’d rather just get to the village, if it’s all the same to you.”

Erik doesn’t reply, though his grip tightens on Charles for a moment before relaxing again.

The land around them has changed again, shifting in that swift, abrupt way peculiar to the north; the lava fields of twisted rock have given way to green, scrubby grass and lush swathes of purple lupines, the tall elegant clusters of flowers swaying in the wind and releasing a rich sweet scent into the air as they ride through. It’s so strange, that somewhere that can be so barren and harsh can suddenly become so verdant, so full of life. Far off birds are singing, hidden from Charles’ sight but piercingly lovely under the rich blue of the sky.

Charles glances behind from time to time to check on Þýður, who is managing well enough on three good legs, but otherwise they just ride, silent but not entirely uncomfortable, across the empty wilderness, as though they are the only people in it, just they two together in one saddle, close and intimate.

The village is nestled between hills, little more than a collection of four or five farmhouses built close enough for company. A child spots them approaching and runs into a grey-roofed house, calling for his father; a moment later he’s followed back out by a whole collection of people, who watch Charles and Erik riding towards them with a distrust that quickly disappears when they see who it is riding in back.

“Your Grace,” one of the alphas says with a polite nod when Charles pulls Skyggnir to a halt a few feet away from the gathered villagers. None of them bow, or even look as though they mean to offer any more respect than that. “Didn’t see it were you, riding two ahorse.”

“Charles’s horse twisted its ankle,” Erik says, leaning over to pat Þýður on the rump before he dismounts, beginning to transfer the contents of Þýður’s saddlebags into those of his own horse. “We were hoping you might be willing to look after it for a night or two until I can send someone to collect it.”

The man shrugs his shoulders. “No problem to put him out to pasture with the sheep, we’ve plenty of grass. Astrid’ll take him for you. Astrid?”

The girl who comes forward is more shy than her father, but she doesn’t hesitate to take the reins from Charles’ hands when he offers them, and meets his eyes as she does. It’s a far cry from the way commoners behave around nobility in the South, and Charles can’t decide whether to be relieved at the lack of stuffy, uncomfortable protocol or scandalised, the preference he’s always imagined for himself warring with his expectation and keeping him mute.

The man looks at Erik calmly, tucking his thumbs into his waistband.“We’re just sat down to lunch,” he says. “There’s room for two more, if you don’t mind plain cooking.”

“Thank you for the kind offer,” Charles says before Erik can reply, “but we really do have to get on if we’re to get back to Ironhold. I’ll make sure whoever comes to fetch Þýður brings you something for your trouble.”

“That’s kind but not needed.” The man shrugs again, but he’s smiling just a little, wry and bemused. “We’re not short of space here, it’s no trouble.”

Clearly Charles has misstepped. “Even so, thank you,” he says, awkwardly, as Erik gets back on the horse behind him. Charles nudges Skyggnir with his knees to start walking, hooves crunching on the gravel road as they leave the awkwardness behind them.

“Like I said on your first night here,” Erik says from behind him, and Charles can tell he’s smiling, just from his voice. “We don’t tend to stand on ceremony, in the North.”

“I didn’t think thanking someone would count as ceremonious,” Charles replies curtly, but he thinks better of it a moment later - Erik _had_ told him, after all, and there was no offence in the villager’s manner, unless you wanted to be bowed and scraped to, which Charles never has. “Sorry. It’s just very different from home. There it would be rude not to pay someone for performing a service for you, regardless of how onerous or not it was.”

“The culture’s different here,” Erik says. “It will take some time for you to adjust. I think everyone understands that.”

Charles snorts, amused. “You might be ‘your Grace’, but I’m not sure they even knew who I was. For all I know they think I’m some omega you carted off into the wilderness from another village.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone in the duchy knows I got married. I’m sure they assumed.”

“Oh? So if you weren’t married that would be what they assumed?” Charles asks, and is surprised to hear the teasing note in his own voice, twisting a little to look back at Erik over his shoulder, though they’re sat so close he can only see a little of Erik’s face. They sway a little as they start down a small hill, but Skyggnir takes it gamely despite his double burden. The country they’re heading into is twisty, lumping and tangled like the rock is alive and roiling.

“Who knows?” Erik says, and Charles can see enough to recognise a smirk. “Maybe they’d think the omega had taken one look at my face and swooned, begging me to carry him away from parochial life!”

“Maybe he took one look at your face and fainted in horror, and you just took advantage, _your Grace,_ ” Charles says, mouth twitching at the corners.

“He could equally have taken advantage of me,” Erik says, his teeth nipping lightly at the crest of Charles’s ear.

Charles laughs; he can’t help it, despite Erik’s blowing hot and cold all day and his own reservations. It’s too good to be out of the fortress and in the fresh air, bantering with Erik as though they’re friends, as though they could be friends. “As if I could pick you up and put you on a horse, unconscious or not,” he retorts, shivering a little from the scrape of teeth. “I don’t have the Gift of superhuman strength, you know.”

“No strength necessary. Just your omega wiles.”

“What wiles?”

“Don’t play coy. You know damn well what wiles.” Erik’s hands flatten slightly against Charles’s stomach, as if he wants to touch the rest of Charles’s body, to touch him all over. But he can’t.

Charles flushes warm all over, but though he knows he ought to be embarrassed at the implication instead he can’t help but feel -- flattered, pleased at the unspoken compliment. It’s not as though Erik has ever hidden that he likes Charles’ body, but it’s very different somehow to hear it here, now, outside of the bedroom, while they’re rocking slowly together in the saddle, pressed close at groin and ass, though clothed. He’s struck with the sudden impulse to lean back into Erik and rub up against him, catlike, and Charles’ breath catches in his throat, surprised with himself.

He opens his mouth to change the conversation, ask if Erik wants to stop to eat, but that’s when they see the smoke.

It’s rising from over towards their right, thick black gouts of it blowing low over the tops of the rocks that maze the area, low enough not to be visible from further away. Suddenly Erik leans forward and snatches the reins from Charles’s grasp, feet deftly freeing the stirrups so he can take them over and kick his heels into Skyggnir’s sides. The horse breaks into a full gallop, the pace jarring on the downward slope of the hill. Charles tangles his fingers in Skyggnir’s mane; it’s the only thing keeping him in the saddle besides Erik’s arms bracketed on either side of him and the weight of Erik’s body pressing down on his back.

They skirt around a large boulder and into a large clearing between the rocky walls, and the space that opens in front of them is covered with blood and bodies.

It’s impossible not to gasp; Charles feels his breath halt in his throat as he stares, Skyggnir pulling to a sharp halt as Erik drags back hard on the reins. Everything is burned, from the blackened ground to what he can only assume were tents, now little more than ash and scraps of scorched fabric; there are other belongings too, some black beyond recognition, others miraculously untouched, cooking utensils and furs and a ragdoll, even, its edges crisped and singed. But what makes the nausea rise in his throat, thick and cloying, are the savaged bodies of people lying around just like their discarded possessions, deep slashes and piercing wounds splitting them open where they haven’t entirely severed limbs.

“Oh, Gods,” Charles whispers, blanching, and leans to the side to be noisily sick.

 

 

~*~


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, this chapter is long as balls, but we had a lot of ground to cover (and very few other excuses). XD
> 
> nb: The archive warnings tag has changed to "choose not to warn," but I don't anticipate there ever being any content besides violence that might be worth warning for. See the "war" tag. ;)

_Charles_

 

By the time Charles has finished throwing up Erik is already off the horse and moving among the bodies, face grim and shoulders tight; his entire posture screams _attack_ , anger in every tense angle of him.

“What in the name of the Gods happened here,” Charles asks, rasping, his throat sore and foul.

“A massacre,” Erik says, side-stepping a body that’s been split from gut to chin. He walks further into the scene, heedless of the blood beneath his boots.

“I can see that.” Charles desperately doesn’t want to dismount, not if it means getting a closer look at the carnage, but he can hardly stay mounted and pretend that nothing has happened here -- it’s the sort of pathetic thing he would be expected to do, down south, given _licence_ to do, without judgement. But Erik, Charles knows, will judge him; more than that, Charles will judge himself. So he shifts upward in the saddle and swings his leg over and down, dropping to the ground to take another reluctant look.

There are maybe twenty or thirty corpses, at a guess, men and women and even children, all hacked up like so much meat and strewn around on the ground like they tried to flee. He can’t see any weapons at all; either their attackers took them, or these people couldn’t even fight back.

“I wouldn’t have thought bandits would kill the young ones, too,” Charles says quietly, and crouches down to tug free a blood-stained cloak so he can drape it over the body of a girl who couldn’t have been more than six or seven. “It seems… excessive.”

“It wasn’t bandits.” Erik’s voice is too flat, hollowed of feeling. “Bandits attack with axes and knives. Can’t you see this is swordwork?”

Charles shakes his head, trying to hold back a nervous laugh. It’s all so -- there’s an urge to run away building inside of him, and he feels like he might burst out of his own skin, or else implode, his heart rabbiting in his chest. “I don’t -- I’ve not had the right experience to tell the difference.” He shifts, awkwardly, looking at the kicked-over remains of a half-cooked meal, scattered across the ground. “If not bandits, then who?”

“His Majesty, King of the great land of Genosha and Lord Protector of the South. Shaw.” Erik says the name like it’s laced with poison. “How considerate -- in his infinite grace and magnanimity, he has taken it upon himself to wipe the scourge of this ‘Snowlander’ tribe from his blessed earth.”

“What?” Charles asks dumbly, and then, as Erik bends to take a closer look at something, he realises what Erik must mean -- these people are all Frjálsmen.

When the North was conquered forty years ago, the Southern armies who took over the land had found that the barbarians who lived there worshipped just one god instead of the multiple deities of the South; their temples had been completely barren of any of the idols and tribute required to appease the Gods, and the people lived like savages, too vicious to be left with their own lands -- unable to be reasonable even when their lives were improved by the better governance coming in from the South. And so King Shaw had ordered them all killed, to prevent them from killing innocent Southern settlers and to keep them from bearing more barbarian children, since they were obviously a lesser breed of man, too close to animals to live. Or so the reports and news from the capital had always said, and for the most part, it was accepted as fact.

Now, having met Erik, who is clearly not an animalistic brute, and having been forced to consider things in more detail -- to consider them at all, in fact, rather than uncomfortably brushing past them in order to think of other, more interesting and less disturbing things, like astronomy or natural science -- Charles feels even more sick, and dizzy, like all his blood has fallen into his feet.

“But --” he starts, looking at Erik aghast. “This is your duchy. These people are -- they’re just people, families. Surely it’s up to you to, to enforce the law? The King shouldn’t be involved, that’s not normal protocol. The Dukes are his representatives, they carry things out for him. Your men can’t have done this.”

Erik looks up, and his mouth twists into something that’s closer to a sneer than a grimace. “Let’s just say that Shaw and I have had our … _disagreements_ , in the past,” he says, hands in fists at his sides. “Shaw sends riders along my southern borders regularly. ‘Merely offering assistance with that savage horde,’ he calls it. And who am I to refuse a King? A Duke, and nothing more. A Duke with power over metal and its forces, with a massive army at his disposal. I must be kept in line. And Shaw will not rest until every ‘barbarian’ child has been bled from the neck like a stuck pig.”

It’s one thing to hear about violence in the abstract -- war has never touched Westchester, and Charles grew up sheltered in its balmy climate, his life comfortable and catered for, if you discounted Kurt and Cain -- but quite another to stand in the centre of it, to smell the blood and gore and, already, decay, sickly and cloying in his nostrils.

Charles’ hands hang slack and helpless at his sides, until he lifts one to rub over his face, hiding his eyes for a long, desperate moment, blotting it all out. ““I don’t know what to say. I... do you bury your dead? Although we don’t have a shovel....”

“I’ll dig with my hands if I have to.” For the first time, there’s something besides anger in Erik’s voice -- a catch on the wrong syllable, perhaps, or just a product of the way he blinks several times in quick succession. Erik’s sword belt unfastens from his hips a second later, weapon and sheath flying over to land near Charles' feet.

Then Erik is down on his knees in the dirt, clawing into soot and rust-tinged mud with his own fingers, tearing into the ground with a fierce sort of determination, his expression almost manic. “I suppose you thought this sort of thing didn’t happen anymore,” Erik all but spits out, up to his wrists now. He refuses to look at Charles; all his attention is on the ground in front of him. “I suppose it’s just history lessons. Old wars, long won. And my mother, and my mother’s mother -- they’re just characters in a book to you.”

Charles drops to the ground beside Erik, heedless of the blood that soaks into the knees of his breeches, and grabs Erik’s wrist, curling his fingers tightly around the bone. “Stop that! You’re going to hurt yourself. You can’t dig thirty graves by hand!”

“The fuck I can’t,” Erik snaps, yanking his arm out of Charles' grasp and wiping at his face with the back of his hand; it leaves a smear of dirt and blood along his cheek in its wake, and Charles grabs it again before Erik can put it back in the hole he’s dug.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps back, horror-struck and sick at heart, and is about to say more when he suddenly becomes aware of four new minds coming up behind them through the rocks, furious and hurting and _armed_.

Charles jerks around to look before he can help it, and behind him he hears the sound of Erik’s sword drawing from its sheath -- he must have felt their weapons approaching, because Erik gets to his feet over Charles with a fast and fluid grace, calling the sword to his hand with his power and setting himself a wide stance, shoving at Charles’ head with one hand to get behind him.

When the strangers come into the other side of the clearing they are as angry as anyone Charles has ever felt, and one of them shouts, “How dare you come here and mess with our dead? How dare you, you filth!”

“ _Friður_ ,” Erik says, his tone low, far from defensive, though he speaks quickly. “Peace be with you. We mean no dishonour.”

The woman leading the four stops at the edge of the destruction, surprise ringing from her mind, and one of the others behind her says, “It’s the _Kenig_.”

Charles steps slightly to the side so he can see them better, and they can see he’s unarmed. “Were you here when this happened?” he asks, though he already knows the answer -- the raw fear is still rattling around in all of their heads, sharp and biting. “Did anyone else get away?”

He earns a sharp look from the woman for his trouble, and a lot of muttering among the other three before she says, “Yes, but it depends what you mean by ‘got away’. Not unscathed.”

“None of these people got away,” Erik says, his voice tight and quiet, intended for Charles, though not soft enough that the newcomers can’t hear. “They lost their families. They bore witness. Surviving is not escaping.” There’s an edge to his tone that Charles can’t quite place. Louder, Erik says: “How many injured?”

“Two more. One adult, one child. We carried them away a bit, so they wouldn’t have to sit amid…” She gestures, lip curling, “Amid all this.”

“Please,” Erik says. “Let us help you tend them, and bury your dead. We will spend Hvíldardagurinn with you and your family.”

Charles opens his mouth to ask what that means, and won’t there be concern at Ironhold when they don’t return as planned, but one look at Erik’s face silences him. It can wait.

Charles can’t help but feel ... lost, even as he goes to fetch the horse and follows Erik toward the other Snowlanders, trailing behind as they talk quietly among themselves in a language Charles doesn’t understand. He’s not one of them, and it’s painfully obvious in the way they glance at him and the tenor of their thoughts that they know and resent it, too. This is not a good time and place to be from the South.

They walk among the high rocks and tumbled earth far enough to be away from the scent of the smoke; it’s not far to their camp, which surely has more to do with not transporting the injured too far than with safety, since it would be laughably easy for their attackers to find them again if they came back. Two tents lean awkwardly together by the rocky wall of a smaller clearing, one of them scorched around the door flap as though it was rescued from the flames. Charles can just see inside it enough to see two pairs of feet, one large, one small, laid on the ground side by side. The four Frjáls come to a halt outside it, their backs to Charles as they check on their patients.

“We have food,” Charles offers, though his own stomach feels like it’s caving in -- it feels disrespectful to be so hungry after seeing something so awful, but he is. Much better for them to have it. He starts unpacking the saddle bag nearest him, pulling out their two water skins and the bread and lamb. “It’s not much.”

“It’s more than we have,” the woman says, and her voice this time has softened, gratitude creeping in around the edges of her mind. This close he can tell she’s the leader of the group, though they’re all betas, save for the adult in the tent, who’s an omega. “Thank you.”

Charles attempts a weak smile. “And here’s my cloak, you’ll need to keep them warm.” He hands over the thick fur to one of the men, who immediately goes into the tent to drape it over the injured child - his niece, Charles reads from his thoughts, whose entire family is now dead save for him.

“Do you have anything to dig with?” Erik asks.

“Not here.” The woman squats down to lay the food out carefully on top of the sack the kitchen staff had packed it in that morning, and if her hands shake, nobody mentions it. “We were… we were planning on sending Óskar over to Ingilstadt to borrow some shovels, see if the holders there would help us. They’re friends of ours. I’m Emilía. In the tent with Yrsa and Jakob is Óskar, and the other two are Pétur and Eir.”

“I wish we’d met under better circumstances,” Erik says. “Eir -- you look familiar.”

“...I spent Hvíldardagurinn on the glacier once, last year,” Eir says, her voice soft and distant, only half there, as though her mind is somewhere entirely different. She’s a smaller woman, with olive skin, though today there is a distinct pallor to her that speaks of an internal strain shei s only poorly hiding. “I recognised you from there, Kenig.”

Right. Time to be practical, Charles thinks, putting away his own distress and lingering horror and forcibly gathering his thoughts, swallowing down nausea and ignoring the lump in his throat. He finishes checking the saddlebags for anything of use and comes to stand next to Erik, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders with a deliberate effort. “I’d suggest Óskar rode Skyggnir here to Ingilstadt,” he says, looking at each of them in turn, “but we’ve been riding two in the saddle for hours, and the horse is exhausted. It might be quicker to wait until tomorrow morning, when Skyggnir’s fresh, and ride there, if it’s far.”

“An hour’s walk at most,” Óskar replies, ducking back out of the tent. He looks as drained as the rest, but he says, anyway, “I’ll go now and be back as soon as I can.”

“All right. I’ll share out the food now,” Charles says, as the man literally turns and walks away, heading off towards the east. “Someone should collect some firewood, and we need to get those tents more upright so they don’t fall on the injured.”

Erik shakes his head. “No -- save the food. It’s better to eat it for dinner.”

He glances toward Eir, who nods and adds: “The _velgjörð_. For Hvíldardagurinn. Dragons-blood, but I almost forgot.”

“No one would blame you,” Erik says. “It’s not much, like Charles said - but there’s bread, at least. And wine.”

Charles nods, slowly, confused at Erik’s refusal. “And some cheese, fish, and lamb, though little of that each between eight. Erik -- whatever _Vil-dada-goo-rinn_ is, and however it is you’re supposed to say it, I really do think it would be better to eat now. All of them might be going into shock, and certainly the injured need to eat instead of starving themselves for whatever it is.”

“ _Veel-_ dard _-agoo-rin_ ,” Erik corrects him almost absently. “But you’re right. We should feed Jakob and Yrsa now. It’s no velgjörð to save the food if it costs a life.” He glances toward the survivors. “The rest of you: can you wait?”

Pétur nods, his mouth a grim line. “As our parents survived, so shall we. The bastard South can’t steal our traditions. Not even with force.”

Charles winces, but says nothing. Instead he breaks off a hunk of bread and cheese, and takes the jar of fermented lamb and a waterskin with him when he slips off into the tent.

It’s small and crowded in there with two people in there already, the little beta girl curled up alongside the omega man, holding his hand tightly; Charles has to make room for himself behind her, settling onto his knees and meeting Jakob’s glassy eyes as steadily as he can, given that Jakob is missing his other arm below the elbow. There’s a great space where Charles knows the man’s arm should be, and it simply isn’t; he feels sick all over again, and it’s an effort for Charles to say, quiet and uninflected, “I’ve brought food.”

There’s a long pause before Jakob nods, nudging the girl - Yrsa - awkwardly with the hand she’s holding, until she rolls onto her back to look up at Charles. There’s a long, ragged and poorly-bound wound down her thigh, and tears in her eyes, which are grey and overlarge in her heart-shaped face, her skin pallid and translucent from blood loss.

She takes the food only once Jakob does, slipping it timidly from Charles’ grip and into her mouth.

Heartsick, Charles smiles at her as gently as he can, and sets the rest of their share of the food down beside her. “Do you think you two can manage here?” he asks Jakob, who nods, but it’s so shaky that Charles has to keep from frowning, Jakob’s thoughts dim and blurry at the edges. They’re going to need someone to watch them, he thinks, and ducks back out of the tent to where Erik and the others are just - standing around, not even talking, staring at the landscape around them as though unsure of where they are.

Clearly Erik isn’t all right -- he looks almost as pale as the rest of them, and Charles isn’t sure he’s ever seen Erik doing _nothing_ \-- sitting still, yes, when reading, and sleeping he’s like a log, barely moving, but when awake Charles has never seen Erik at loose ends, without the vital active energy running through him that Charles has grown to expect from his husband.

“Eir,” Charles says, coming up to her side and touching her elbow. “Do you think you could go and sit with Jakob and Yrsa? They need someone to help them eat, I’m not sure they’re strong enough to keep going without someone prompting them and they do need to get some food in them to start replacing their blood.”

Eir nods, almost as shakily as Jakob, but she goes, and at least that’s one of them sat down with something useful to do instead of wobbling on their feet waiting to pass out.

“Pétur, could you see to straightening up the tents?” Charles asks next, gesturing behind them. “I understand that they were put up in a hurry, but we need to make sure they’re not going to fall. Emilía, you help him, and both of you keep an ear out in case anyone else stumbles across us.”

Once those two have moved off to their own tasks, Charles pauses for a moment, looking at Erik and noting the slight glaze to his eyes -- he was obviously paying attention when Charles was giving out tasks, but he said nothing, not even the sort of dry remark about bossy omegas which Charles would have expected. It’s easy to forget sometimes the difference in their ages, but Erik looks his age now. The bright sunshine and blue sky above their heads makes the pallor of Erik’s skin the more notable under his summer tan, and Charles gives himself a moment to just breathe, in and out, covering his eyes with one hand and pinching down hard on the bridge of his nose, staving off his own emotions, before he walks over to stand beside Erik.

“Help me find some firewood,” he says, making it a direct instruction rather than a request.

Erik spares him a glance as though he’s surprised to find Charles there, but again says nothing, instead he just sets off toward the west, toward a collection of shrunken and sparsely-leaved trees. Again, that Erik just obeyed him without so much as a snide comment is worrying, and Charles hurries to keep up with Erik’s long stride, walking alongside him rather than behind.

Once they’re far enough away from the tents that they won’t be overheard, Charles looks up sidelong at Erik and says, “Are you all right?”

There’s a long pause before Erik replies, and when he does his tone is almost conversational, would be almost convincing but for the tension in his body and the jerky way he’s walking, like he’s not quite in control of his body

“When I was a child,” Erik says, distant and detached, “back in the days of Shaw’s first Solution, before you were born, I used to like to spend the day with my grandmother. Mother’s mother. She lived in a village an hour’s ride from Ironhold. My father had very strict dietary regulations for me, always worried I was going to grow _out_ rather than _up_ \-- but Amma would bake me anything I wanted when I came over. She just enjoyed spending time together.”

His gaze is focused out on the horizon, and Charles thinks Erik’s making a point of not looking at him, somehow; he’s not sure why Erik is telling him this, but he doesn’t interrupt, waiting to see where this is going.

“So I’d get to eat _bolti_ ,” Erik says, from wherever it is he’s gone in his head, “and all kinds of other things I was never allowed at home, and then I’d run out and play with the other village children. No different from any other young alpha’s childhood, I imagine. Fighting play-wars with sticks for swords. Pretending we could fly like dragons. All this under the pretense that I was going out with Logan to learn fencing: a pastime Logan and I both agreed was terribly boring, so he never had much of a problem himself just riding out for the day while I ate and played.”

Erik’s hands stay at his sides but his hands curl into fists. “Of course, I was foolish, to think Shaw would suffer a village to live within such close quarters of his Northern stronghold, if that village were mostly-Frjáls. They’d gotten away with hiding it for years, but eventually someone told my father, who had to tell Shaw. His army destroyed it in less than five minutes, much the same as you’ve seen today. And when they thought most of the people were dead, they burned it to the ground.”

Charles realises suddenly that he’s holding his breath, one hand over his mouth to hide his own expression; Erik’s arms and shoulders are visibly shaking, his voice cracking; like one of the geysirs they saw that morning, one that has been bubbling away slowly until Charles’ question has caused it to erupt.

“I survived because my grandmother didn’t,” Erik continues without emotion, eyes focused somewhere Charles cannot see. “They cut off my Amma’s head. I ran back to her house when it started, of course, but she was already ... like that. So I covered myself in her blood and lay in the dirt, pretended to be dead. I let them light the house on fire with the both of us still in it. When it got too hot, I used her body as a shield. I made it out into the street just before the roof caved in.”

He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “I must have passed out at some point. Next thing I knew I was waking up and Logan had me. I could have used my power to stop it, you know. I’d come into it, by that age. I could have taken all their axes and swords and stuck them with them. But I didn’t. I just laid down in the street and let everyone die.”

Charles doesn’t know what to say, or do. They’ve reached the poor shelter of the trees, sad, bent things shaped by the wind into leaning figures shorter than the two of them are tall, and he feels like he should be crying, but instead he just feels numb, shocked by Erik’s story told so blandly, his organs all clenched together inside of him like being they’re clamped in some giant fist, squeezing them into one. Sympathy and pity rise inside him like the tide, and despite his mixed feelings about Erik he can’t help but respond.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, coming to a halt at the edge of the trees, the thick mossy ground beneath his feet churned over by roots and treacherous to walk on. “That’s…” Charles trails off, then, carefully, he reaches for Erik’s face with one hand, touching his fingertips to Erik’s cheekbone, just dimpling the skin and not daring to cup his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says, trying to keep his voice as calm as Erik’s. “You didn’t have the experience then that you have now. You couldn’t have reacted like you would as an adult - you were a child.”

“I couldn’t face my father after that,” Erik says, as if he hasn’t even heard. He doesn’t even react to Charles' hand on his face; it’s like he’s somewhere else entirely. “I pretended to be sick for weeks.” A short laugh, the sound strange and harsh. “Well. I say ‘pretended.’”

“Did he…” Charles starts, but no, of course no. “He didn’t know, then? Your father? That you and your mother were Frjáls.”

Erik shakes his head, dislodging Charles’ hand; it falls to his shoulder, and Charles pulls back as Erik shrugs. “No. He never knew. It was supposed to be like _our_ marriage: a Frjáls of royal blood with a noble Southerner, keeping the bloodline alive somewhere it could never be destroyed. It would have worked better, had I been omega, but I’m not and my parents never had another child. You were never supposed to be necessary. And when you were, you were never supposed to know.”

“What has you being an alpha got to do with it?”

“The bloodline is passed through the omega or woman to his or her children,” Erik says. “That your children by me will be allowed to inherit my title at all is … special circumstances.”

Oh. Charles feels something in him tighten, that fist clenching inside of him, and he turns away to look at the trees, folding his arms low across his chest, over his still flat, still unaltered belly. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, swallowing down his discomfort like a stone. He wants somehow to reach out, but after Erik failed to respond before it’s too hard to risk the gesture, if it might be rejected. Never mind that Erik is saying Charles is not, could never be, what he wanted for a mate, that Charles’ children will never be what Erik wants them to be, because Charles is not. Erik has still told him more of himself than he ever has before, and Charles is grateful to understand even a little more of the man he’s married to. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Some part of Erik’s personality must be leaking back inside him, because he says: “Sorry it happened to _me_ , or sorry it happened at all?”

“Don’t be an ass.” Charles looks back over at Erik, and though he means it to come out fierce he can hear his own voice breaking as his composure does, his expression cracking at the edges, eyes prickling. “I’m sorry it happened at all, and that it’s still happening to people like those back at the tents and on the ground back there, and I don’t really know how to deal with this, all right? I’m doing the best I bloody can, so please let’s both be adults and not bloody fight about it.”

Erik turns and looks at Charles at last, lifting both his hands to rest one on Charles' shoulder, the other slipping back to cup Charles' head in its palm; he isn’t shaking anymore, and his gaze is steady when he looks into Charles' eyes. Charles is the one who feels like he’s wavering, the sensation only worsening when Erik leans in to brush his lips against Charles' brow like Charles is a child. And maybe, in Erik’s eyes, he is.

More than anything right now Charles just wants to be held, and to hold someone close, to feel their hearts beating and alive.

“Firewood,” is what he says, and he tugs himself away from Erik’s hands, stepping back awkwardly and nearly tripping. “Then I want to see if I can find any yarrow for Jakob and Yrsa’s wounds so I can make a poultice. I read about it in a book, it should help with the bleeding.”

“You’re more likely to find yarrow near the towns than out here in the heather,” Erik says, seeming not at all put-off by Charles’ pulling away. “Though if it were here, it wouldn’t be near trees. It grows in dry soil.”

Overhead a flock of birds fly by, calling amongst each other in high voices, and Charles steps into the shade of the trees to pick up some fallen branches, bending at the waist and cradling them in the crook of his left arm. He doesn’t respond, too off-kilter from that odd little kiss, followed by such nonchalance. Not being able to read Erik’s mind only gets more and more infuriating with every day that passes, having to guess at his motivations instead of just _knowing_ , like he would a normal person’s.

“I am trying, you know,” he says eventually, looking over at Erik and straightening with his armful of wood, having to sidestep a little to keep from catching his head on a tree.

“Trying what?” Erik doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Even Charles isn’t sure what he meant to say.

“To be someone you believe when I say I hate what’s been done here,” he says eventually, frustrated and ineloquent. “I know you think I’m a spoiled, pampered Southerner, and that we’re all bad, but -- we’re not. We’re not. I want you to take me seriously as a person, not put words in my mouth you think a Southerner would say because I -- I’m allowed to have an emotional reaction to this.”

Erik makes his way back over to where Charles is, standing a few scant feet away -- far enough to pass for formal, close enough that Charles can’t forget that Erik’s quite literally taller than the trees here. His expression gives nothing away, some unreadable emotion on it that Charles can’t decipher as he says, “Do you think you have to tear out your own heart and erase all trace of sentimentality for me to take you seriously?”

Charles can’t hold in his response, blurts it out, like throwing up. “I think if I start screaming I won’t stop,” he says, before he can stop himself.

“Then,” Erik says, “We are not so dissimilar, after all.”

There’s another clatter of birds overhead, and Charles glances back towards the camp; his pulse is fluttering in his throat, his wrists, his stomach, hard enough that he can feel it under his own skin, and he doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s just the weight of Erik’s grey gaze on him, steady and unwavering, like he’s really finally looking at _Charles_ , not just the outside of him but the inside. He swallows, and shifts his feet. “We should get back with the wood.”

Erik nods and turns to lead the way, stepping over the contorted ground with an ease that Charles envies. “When I contradicted you earlier, about the food, it wasn’t because you were necessarily wrong in your suggestion,” Erik says, tiredly, as they walk into the meadow again. The sun is lower in the horizon now; Charles is surprised at how the light has changed, in what felt like just a few short minutes. “It’s that Hvíldardagurinn begins tonight. It’s the Frjáls day of rest. One of the religious and cultural requirements of the day is that we are expected to eat a large feast on the first evening. The bread and wine have particular uses, though admittedly it’s supposed to be a certain kind of bread. And burning-wine, not strawberry.” He glances over at Charles, as if checking his comprehension. “Doing so - the feast - is a velgjörð, which means … hmm … which is kind of, of a good deed? I’m not sure how to translate it.”

“A Commandment?” Charles suggests.

“No, that would be a _boðorðið_ , which is different. For example, the boðorðið is that we cannot work on Hvíldardagurinn. A velgjörð is not obliged by law in the same way, but to ignore a velgjörð is to be - “ another pause, as Erik thinks, “- to be un-righteous.”

Charles can still feel the tension tangled up inside of him, but it’s further off now, something he can handle. “Hence why you wanted to wait,” Charles surmises, adjusting the woodpile in his arms when it seems set to slip.

Erik nods. “At the time I was mostly running off ritual, but even now I think it is a good idea. It will help them to do something familiar, don’t you think?”

They’re close enough now that Charles can see the others at the campsite, small figures sat together, leant upon one another as though they can’t sit up without the support. “Yes,” he says, his elbow brushing Erik’s as they walk back side-by-side. “I think they need that.”

When they get back to the camp Erik goes to crouch by the other Frjáls, speaking quietly, and Charles piles the wood together to make a fire, building it into a careful pyramid shape before using his knife to strike sparks from a rock; it takes a few tries to get it to catch, the wood smouldering and damp, but eventually he gets a fire started and can sit back on his heels, pleased with himself. Raven had made sure he had the benefit of her woodcraft lessons, back in Westchester, and she’d be proud of him, he thinks, to see him using them now.

He glances over at Erik, who is still talking to Eir. “When do you count as evening enough to eat?”

Erik looks up, meeting his gaze across the small camp they’ve set up. “It’s all calendar-based in summer and winter,” he says. “But - I think we have enough time to bury the dead before evening, if Óskar returns quickly.”

“To bury two dozen people?” That seems a bit overambitious to Charles, but Erik just gives him a wry half-smile and wiggles his fingers. Oh, right, metal shovels. “Never mind.”

Charles goes to check on the two injured Frjáls, and finds them both sleeping, though not restfully; their minds are still fraught with fear and pain, which he eases as best he can, soothing it back away from them and dispersing it. It won’t help long-term, but at least they can rest more easily. He stays there for a while, having done everything he can think of now to help; he could do with a few moments to think, himself.

It feels like a long time, and none at all, sat in the dim light inside the tent, curled in on himself with his legs crossed on the thin canvas floor and trying not to let his breathing get too harsh, too rapid; trying not to remember all the blood, and the parts of people you weren’t supposed to see on the outside, lying around like so much offal. Charles can’t help but rock back and forth a little, covering his face with his hands and wiping away tears that threaten at the corners of his eyes, stifling himself so that the others outside won’t hear him.

Besides that, too, is the confusion of dealing with Erik -- Charles has never felt so at sea in their interactions as he has today, and he doesn’t know what to do or say any more. Erik has gone from teasing and taking Charles out for a ride, to dismissing the action as being not-inconvenient, to being affectionate and honest and dismissive and respectful in quick succession. Charles can’t stop thinking about Erik’s hands on his body, his lips pressing against Charles’ forehead, his snide dismissal of Charles’ attempt at comfort and then his offering of acceptance.

By the time he feels Óskar coming back, along with six or seven other minds, all grim and focused on the shovels they’re carrying and bearing up for what they know they’re going to see, Charles has mostly composed himself. He stays in the tent, though, anxious and uncertain, until Erik calls to him to come out.

The light outside seems overbright when Charles steps into the sun, and he has to shade his eyes to keep from squinting, getting used to it only slowly. Erik meets him just outside the tent, and sets one hand at the small of Charles' back, steering him toward the minds of those approaching across the meadow, figures quickly growing larger against the horizon.

“I don’t think I can help with the digging,” Charles says, just to Erik, turning to look at him and staying, deliberately, weakly, in the curve of his arm, the heat of Erik’s body close against his. He feels ashamed to say it, but… “I can’t look at that again. I’m going to stay here, if that’s not going to raise eyebrows.”

“It will be fine,” Erik says, calm as though he has no idea how confused he’s made Charles. “Jakob and Yrsa need someone to watch them, anyway, and I doubt Ingilstadt has a physiker to send. No one will think less of you.”

“All right.” Charles lets his head bow forward and rests his forehead against Erik’s upper arm for a long moment, just breathing, hiding his face, before he makes himself stand up straight and turn to meet their visitors.

One of the newcomers steps out to the forefront of the group once they’re within a few metres of one another. He’s a tall alpha, built like an ox, with a broad, honest face, currently set in a grim expression. “Your Grace,” ducking his head in a brief not-bow. “The boy here told us what happened. We’d like to help, if you can use us.”

Erik nods, and Charles is struck all over again by the strange, utilitarian respect the commoners have for their Duke and the Duke, in turn, for his subjects. Were this Charles’ home, no one would dared have address Erik uninvited without bringing several guilders’ worth of gold with them as an appeasement prize.

“We have twenty-nine graves to dig,” Erik says. “My Gift will help with most of them, but your assistance would be a great benefit. I see you brought tents, as well.”

The other alpha nods. “We did. And food, too. And burning-wine. Óskar here told us of your needs.”

“We’re very grateful,” Erik says -- and this time _he’s_ the one who almost bows, tilting his head forward far enough that if Charles didn’t know better, he’d assume this was how Erik would greet King Shaw himself. “Mister …?”

“Owen Holt,” the alpha says. “Blacksmith up at Ingilstadt. And this here’s my omega, Julia.” He introduces the rest, as well as their occupations -- mostly farmers, though one tailor: that should be useful, provided the man has a strong stomach, Charles thinks, for sewing up Jakob and Yrsa’s wounds.

Erik introduces the Frjáls in turn. Only then does he tilt his head toward Charles and add: “And Earl Charles Xavier, my omega.”

“Welcome,” he says, falling back on his mother’s training and forcing a neutral expression onto his face, because several of the newcomers are thinking some rather fierce thoughts about Southerners and Charles in particular; the breeze is blowing the anger scent towards him, too, leeching from the villagers’ very pores. “If you could put the food you’ve brought by the fire, I’ll see to it that it’s readied. I wish we could welcome you to a happier camp.”

His words don’t seem to be making much improvement upon the villagers’ predilections toward him, but he can feel Erik relaxing somewhat next to him, all the same.

“Charles is not familiar with the Frjáls’ difficulties or their culture, although he is sympathetic to their plight,” Erik says.

It doesn’t soften the thoughts of those who object to him, but Charles can’t wait until the end of days for that to happen, so he just accepts the bags of food when they’re begrudgingly handed over, thinking how ridiculous it is that the Frjáls were willing to accept him on Erik’s word, and the other Northerners are not.

“How long do you think you’ll be?” he asks Erik, looking back up at him, still with Erik’s hand on the small of his back, Charles’ hand on Erik’s waist, and feels suddenly very -- close, domestic, almost, like any omega with their spouse.

“An hour. Maybe two.” Erik waits until the Northerners are nearly out of earshot before he leans closer to Charles and lowers his voice, says: “The common Northern people do not know I am Frjáls -- only those who are Frjáls themselves. Speak carefully.”

“All right,” Charles murmurs, his pulse beating loudly in his ears. “I’ll have the food ready for when you get back,” he says more loudly, and, feeling others looking at them, feeling foolish, leans up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the corner of Erik’s mouth, swift and close-mouthed.

Erik gives him a strange look at that, and for a moment seems to hesitate -- but then he walks away anyway, following the others back toward the site of the massacre.

 

~*~

Dusk is settling in by the time that the gravediggers come back, the sky a pale violet bowl studded with the occasional cloud shadowing the earth below; though it doesn’t yet get any darker than this at night, it’s comforting to Charles at least to have some semblance of natural order to shape his day. Eir had helped him to prepare the food as best they could in the two cast iron pots the villagers had brought with them, and once everyone is seated -- save for the two injured, who remain in their tent, still sleeping soundly under the blanketing influence of Charles’ mind -- Emilía starts the ceremony.

It’s beautiful, in its own way, despite the scavenged ingredients. First Emilía lights the two stubby candles they rescued from the destruction, wafting the heat that rises from them across her face and saying a quiet prayer with her hands over her eyes, every movement reverent, nothing rushed even though by now she and the other Frjáls must be starving. Charles imagines that done at a table, with candles for light and the participants not streaked with mud and blood only half-heartedly washed off, this would be as stately as many of the complicated rituals performed in the Southern temples on holy days.

Erik, the other alphas, and the beta males have had to cover their heads despite only Pétur taking part directly, and as Emilía blesses the bread and burning-wine Charles can’t help but wonder if it pains Erik not to be able to participate in the ritual without giving himself away -- he had said it was a requirement earlier, after all. But he takes the bread when it’s passed to him without the respectful but detached expression on his face breaking, and hands another share to Charles without a word.

Charles watches it all with curiosity and genuine interest, but he cannot deny that when they are finally able to eat, he sets to with a will only curbed by how deeply ingrained the conditioning is that he had as a child to keep to his best table manners. The burning wine is just as acerbic as he remembers it, but Charles has been in the North long enough to appreciate its warming qualities now, and so he sips it with gratitude, feeling the sensation returning to his prickling toes.

Nobody talks much over the meal, save for a few brief conversations held in low voices, as though everyone is trying not to disturb the melancholy silence that sits over them all, palpable even to non-telepaths. It’s a relief when they are all finished, and the villagers go to put up their tents so that they can all get some sleep.

“There’s an extra tent for you and your husband,” Owen says to Erik, tipping his head to Charles in a polite enough nod, though his thoughts are still less than enthused about Charles’ origin. “Thought you might appreciate the privacy, given you’re nobles _and_ newlyweds.”

Erik thanks him and rises, reaching out a hand to help Charles up after him, following Owen’s begrudging lead through the camp to a small fur tent. Erik has to practically bend in half to walk through the front flap, and inside neither of them can stand. Charles is relieved to see, however, that there are two bedrolls laid out on the ground for them. And that they’re _furs_ ; not all Northerners are as immune to the cold air as Erik, then. Erik shuts the tent flap behind them, and then they’re alone.

Charles doesn’t want to sleep in his clothes -- too sweaty and close from the day, they need an airing if he’s to wear them again tomorrow, so nude it will have to be. Charles lowers from his crouch to sit on the floor on top of the rightmost bedroll, and unlaces his boots, setting them aside at the far end of the tent. This done, he then reaches for the lacing of his breeches, tugging them loose along with his underwear so he can push them down his legs. He can feel Erik watching him even as Erik sits to take off his own boots, the dimness of the tent interior making Erik’s eyes little more than a gleam.

Any other night, they would be getting ready to have sex before sleeping, another attempt at getting Charles with child and at ignoring the intense physical rapport between them, hot and aching; tonight there is none of that in the air, just a deep and profound sadness and weariness.

Charles pulls his jerkin and shirt off over his head and sets them aside with his boots and breeches, folding them carefully though there’s nowhere to put them but the ground. “Do you -- ” he starts, tentatively, then stops, thinking better of the question. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” Erik says, setting his boots just outside the tent flap and pulling his shirt off over his head, tossing it into a far corner of the tent.

Crossing his bare legs, Charles sighs and rests his elbow on his knee, then his cheek on the heel of his hand. “I was going to ask if you wanted to talk about it,” he says, pushing his hair back out of his face with his free hand. “But I thought probably not, really.”

“Some other time, perhaps,” Erik says. It’s not a complete dismissal, at least, which is something. And at least Erik wasn’t rude about it.

Erik strips out of his trousers and lies down, pulling a blanket of furs over himself, and Charles follows suit, sliding under his own thick blanket and turning onto his side, facing Erik. He can still hear other people moving around outside, see glimpses of the fire through the thin sliver of a gap between the tent flaps, but at the same time they’re apart from everyone else, in their own space. It’s not cold, but Charles shivers; now that he’s finally still and not doing anything, he’s starting to feel the chill of earlier coming back like an old haunting.

He tries for a long minute to settle and push it back himself, but it’s no use. His skin is tingling all over with chills that he knows are all in his head, and finally Charles sighs and clenches his fists in his blankets to drag them with him as he shuffles across the cold canvas-covered floor to lay down against Erik’s side.

Charles curls against him there and rests his head in the hollow of Erik’s shoulder, letting out a sigh of relief as he settles. His hand falls over Erik’s solar plexus, and he hooks his ankle over Erik’s, too, keeping him there. It’s warm, and better, to be able to feel Erik breathing, the soft lub-dub sound of his heart beating under Charles’ ear, and it’s still a few seconds before Erik’s arm curls around his waist in turn, but once Erik is holding him close it feels natural.

“What brought this on?” Erik murmurs, voice quiet and deep, but Charles doesn’t reply, just turns his face further into Erik’s shoulder and falls slowly into an uneasy sleep.

 

~*~

He wakes later when he’s jostled from his comfortable spot, hands disentangling him from Erik’s body and rolling him onto his other side; Charles grumbles but doesn’t wake enough to fight back, eyes slitting open to watch Erik ducking out of the tent, a silhouette against the brighter fire, which is burning low now.

Erik crouches down beside it with his back to Charles, still shirtless -- isn’t he cold, Charles wonders drowsily, as he hears Erik start to speak out there in the night in that strange Frjáls language, voice quiet to keep from waking anyone else. Charles tries to stay awake, but he falls back to sleep not long after, restless now he’s alone and trying to escape the scarlet images that run through his drowsing mind. They only quiet when another body slips back in behind his and pulls him close, but they keep whispering to him all through the night.

 

~*~

_Erik_

Erik never quite manages to sleep. He watches Charles drift uneasily in and out of it, shifting in Erik’s arms in the lightest phases of it and mumbling nonsense under his breath in the deepest. It occurs to Erik that it’s possible that Charles can hear other people’s dreams. That maybe they bleed into his in close quarters. Whether he can or not, it’s undeniable that this is not the best environment for a telepath. Too many raw thoughts and emotions. Grief and anger and pain. How much insulation does Charles' Gift give him against such things? Erik can barely stand to live inside his own mind, sometimes; if he had to feel his own rage as well as everyone else’s, he isn’t sure he’d survive it.

He tries to avoid his own memories, lying here in the semi-dark. He counts the freckles on Charles' shoulders twice over. He recites a Frjáls prayer in his mind. He walks himself through an old spar with Logan, move by move. He imagines their bed back at Ironhold and fucking an enthusiastic Charles in it -- though that only serves to get him hard, which isn’t helped when his cock is nestled between Charles' bare asscheeks. He recites some difficult passages of Svarti poetry in a whisper until his body calms again.

All this, and memories of bloodshed still stain the edges of his thoughts. He dozes occasionally, too on-edge to allow himself to truly fall asleep, and dreams of strange things that don’t make sense, always partly aware that he’s asleep, ready to pull himself back to the waking world the moment the dream takes a turn for the worse. He lets the rise-fall of Charles' chest against his hand ground him, keeping him with one foot always in lucid Falsenight.

His mind toys with memories from the day before, skirting everything tinged with rust. Instead he lingers on how Charles' body felt sitting in the same saddle as his, Charles shivering when Erik teethed at his ear. Charles touching his cheek in that copse of trees. Charles' arm slipping round his waist when Erik touched the small of his back, and that strange kiss Charles had given him. All building up to the night, when they lay down to sleep and Charles tangled them together like he wanted to feel close as badly as Erik did, soft and warm against Erik’s side.

The memories torque in the unreality of the dreamworld, always straying further than they had in real life, until Erik is rubbing himself against Charles while they ride, Charles pressing his body back against Erik, wanting more. A bizarre second-universe in which Charles pulls him down out of the saddle and undoes the clasp of his trousers, taking Erik into his mouth and sucking him like he’s never wanted anything else.

When daylight drags Erik back to full wakefulness, he’s already hard again against Charles’ backside. He can hear people moving outside the tent, talking and preparing breakfast, some of the villagers even preparing to leave. Erik can’t tell if Charles is awake but he doesn’t dare move, not if there’s a chance he isn’t. His body expects sex in the mornings even if his mind recoils, and Charles’ ass is warm and round against him, inviting.

Charles makes a grumbling growl and shifts, rolling his face down toward the furs folded under his head, fingers curling in the bed and the toes of his right foot curling where they’re braced against Erik’s shin. Erik’s breath catches in the back of his throat and he quickly rolls over onto his back, eyes wide open, trying to convince himself he hadn’t just been about to let himself slip back into sleep and rub mindlessly against Charles' body until the issue resolved itself.

Charles grumbles again and tugs on the blanket over his body, rolling fully onto his front. “Noise,” he complains, though it’s muffled by the fur. “Stop.” Erik has never been so happy that Charles is decidedly not a morning person.

Erik sits up, reaching for his trousers at the far corner of the tent and pulling them on, tucking his still-hard cock up against his stomach for now and buttoning the fly, yanking his shirt over his head to hide the evidence. “Time to get up,” he says, placing a hand on Charles' ankle -- or what he assumes is Charles’ ankle beneath the furs. “People are taking the tents down.”

“Good fo’them,” Charles says without rolling over, but after a moment he pushes up onto his elbows, looking at Erik over his bare shoulder with cross, drowsy eyes. “Hmm. Oh. Yes.” His face falls, body tensing where he’s still lying on his belly, and he says, “Fuck. I remember now.”

Erik sets to rolling up his own furs, stacking the bedroll atop the pillow and reaching for his boots outside the tent. “Hard to forget,” Erik says, a bit cross himself; telepath or no, at least Charles had slept through the night.

Charles winces. “I was hoping they were just nightmares.” The blanket slips free from his body when he sits up and Erik has to jerk to tug the tent flap properly closed against prying eyes, because Charles is utterly bare underneath, pale skin almost glowing in the momentary sunlight. Charles looks at Erik with a serious expression, sleep falling away now, and continues, “Don’t be angry. You know I don’t wake up coherent,” as he reaches for his breeches and underwear.

Erik nods, as far as he’s willing to go with apologies this morning. “I didn’t sleep well,” he says by way of explanation, lacing up his boots.

“Mmm. Nobody did,” Charles says absently, then disappears into his shirt.

Erik wants to warn him, _you’re slipping_ , but since he’s still pretending he doesn’t know about Charles' Gift, he keeps his mouth shut. He takes advantage of Charles' momentary blindness, however, to adjust himself in his trousers once more, letting his softening cock fall back into its rightful place.

“Are you hungry?” he asks when Charles reappears again, hair mussed but shirt on.

Charles nods, though with obvious reluctance. “As much as I can be when I’m thinking about yesterday.”

“I think someone’s made breakfast,” Erik says. “Porridge and game, it smells like. Probably one of the villagers went hunting this morning.” He drags his hands back through his own hair, tidying it as best possible. He realises he must have looked quite the state to the Northmen this morning, with his sleeves stained with mud nearly to the elbows and his hair tangled in his face. At least he’d washed the blood and dirt from his hands at some point yesterday, though he can’t quite recall when.

Turning onto his back to pull on his breeches, Charles makes a noise of assent, tightening the laces at his waist before sitting up for his boots. The way he rolls around is obscene, Erik thinks helplessly, but he can’t stop looking. “Come on then,” Charles says, getting up to a crouch and ducking out of the tent.

Erik rubs both hands over his face and then follows a second later. He doesn’t realise how cramped he’d felt until he’s straightening to his full height outside, rolling his shoulders back and working out a crick in his neck.

The Frjáls are sitting near the fire, barefoot or wearing furs wrapped around their feet with cords in the absence of non-leather shoes. When Erik draws closer he can see that they’ve all already torn the left sleeve of their shirts, officially in mourning for the siblings and parents and spouses -- thankfully, no children -- that they lost in the attack.

“ _Friðsælt hvíldardagur_ ,” Erik greets them almost tentatively -- but no one is observant enough of the old ways to bother rebuking him for speaking to them at all. They just return his greeting in a muttered chorus.

Erik sits down in the space they’ve left for him and Charles, accepting a bowl of porridge for himself and for Charles when they pass it around. Someone apparently went back by the village, for they’ve plates and cutlery now, albeit not of the highest quality. Erik’s reminded of all the meals he’s eaten on the road, during wartime. No. Better not to think of war.

Charles murmurs his own thanks before taking a spoonful of his porridge, then, once he’s swallowed, leans over to Erik and says, “Do we have to be quiet? I don’t want to tread on any toes.”

“Traditionally, the day of rest is exempt from mourning,” Erik whispers back. “They should not be observing mourning in any way. But different people do things differently. We can talk to each other, but we should leave them be unless they speak to us first, I think.”

On the glacier, they would be expected to mourn only in their hearts, and otherwise behave normally. The rest of the week of mourning would be very different. But the nomadic tribes apparently don’t follow those same rules. Erik feels slightly out-of-place himself, sitting in mourning with people who were strangers until yesterday, and doing so on Hvíldardagurinn, too.

Or perhaps it just hits too close, as it was just five years ago that Erik sat in mourning for his mother, himself.

The silence around the fire is a heavy one, broken only by the scrape of spoons against the bottoms of bowls and the shuffle of feet against dirt whenever anyone shifts their weight. Erik wants to believe they’re all reliving, in their minds, the joy and beauty of their lost loved ones’ lives, not the horrific ways in which they died -- but he knows better than that.

The meat is rabbit, Erik thinks, though someone let it roast in the coals for too long and it’s gone a bit tough and black. The Frjálsmen couldn’t have removed it, not without breaking the laws of the day of rest, so they just let it burn until one of the villagers remembered to assist.

Erik doesn’t realise his eyes have started to glaze over until he’s jolted back into place by Owen Holt’s voice speaking just over his left shoulder; he nearly startles, twisting round to meet the man’s gaze.

“We’re heading out,” Owen says, gesturing over his shoulder at the rest of the townspeople, tents packed up on their backs. “Is there anything else you all need us to do before we leave?”

Erik shakes his head. “No. Thank you. We’re grateful you came.”

“Least I can do,” Owen says. “Common human decency, if you ask me. Not like them Southern brutes.” Owen manages not to look at Charles when he says it, but he doesn’t bother begging Charles' pardon, either. “We’re just over the hills, if you change your mind. We’ll be back tomorrow with more supplies.”

Charles doesn’t so much as change expression, Erik notices, which is more than he’d be likely to give Erik if Erik said as much. Instead he just says, quite serious and calm, “If there is anything we can do for you up at Ironhold, send word and I’ll see it gets done for your kindness.”

“I would not be so vulgar as to expect a reward,” Owen says, a bit stiffly. And when he bows, a second later, it’s just as stiff and ungainly in its form. “My Lord.”

“I’m not offering one.” An almost silent exhalation is the only indication that Charles is affected by the hostile response. “If you need anything, please send someone to ask and it will be done, because your actions merit that consideration -- even in the North, not everyone would come to their neighbour’s aid as swiftly or as willingly as you have. Take it or don’t as you wish.”

Erik looks sidelong at Charles and says nothing. Owen seems disgruntled, but not nearly so offended as he had earlier, as he turns toward Erik and acknowledges him with a nod of his head and a “Your Grace.” Erik waves, as if to dismiss the formalities, and Owen relaxes even further before he heads off, shrugging his pack further up his shoulders and following after the others.

“Rabbit?” Erik says, nudging his bowl against Charles' arm.

Charles glances at Erik and shakes his head. “No, thank you. It’s too early in the morning for meat.”

“No such thing.” Damn omega thing to say, too; Charles and Magda might get on, Erik thinks, if she weren’t so likely to try to assassinate him if her mood turned sour.

Erik finishes his breakfast and sets the bowl aside, pushing himself up to his feet if only because he can’t abide just sitting here any longer, letting the hard earth reach slow, painful fingers up into his spine. Charles follows him with his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, or move to get up himself as Erik walks away between the pitched tents, the sounds of wind in trees and songbirds’ whistles already fading from his awareness.

Erik had forgotten what Hvíldardagurinn could be like, if left with no books for occupation -- nothing but the weight of memories seeping up through your thoughts like blood in water. He never gets a chance to honour the day when he’s at war; too much a risk of being found out. The last time he felt like this, so odd and detached, like a cut flower with no more roots, was the Hvíldardagurinn after the destruction of his Amma’s village. When books were no salve, and no mother’s arms could erase what he’d seen. He remembers the hot sticky feel of Amma’s blood on his skin. Holding his breath when the soldiers came into the house, looking for survivors one last time before one of them set it ablaze with his Gift.

Some days, he thinks as he wanders through the camp, walking with no particular aim, are like pages in a manuscript that’s been dropped, all mixed together and stacked out-of-order, where this day lies flush against a day that happened two dozen years ago, and if he held them up to the light, he’d be able to see through thin vellum and read the ink that was written on the page behind. If he didn’t have his body to ground himself, sometimes he worries he might lose track of which Erik he really is. Might wander through history at odds and ends, reading and rereading the same paragraphs over and over.

The world itself feels fragile. Like Erik could press a hand out and crack its shell and step into something different. Just close his eyes and let himself be given to madness. It would take no effort. In some ways, he thinks, it’d be a relief.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until they’re right behind him, and Charles’ hands are settling onto the backs of his arms, curling around them with a firm grip. “Come away from here,” Charles says, and Erik realises with a sick lurch that he’s somehow wandered all the way to the site of the massacre, is stood over the freshly turned earth of the graves, row on row, staring at them blindly. Charles tugs, insistent, and when Erik turns to look at him Charles is frowning at him, brows drawn together in his pale face and making a deep little wrinkle between them. “Come on,” Charles says, and tugs again.

This time Erik goes, letting himself be led away, though the moment he’s turned away from the graves he can feel their occupants watching him, twenty-nine ghosts hovering over their soil, silent.

Charles keeps one hand on Erik’s elbow as they walk, a welcome and necessary presence at his side as he leads Erik off towards the little river where they filled their waterskins last night, away from the dead. They skirt between hillocks, circling the camp, until Charles stops them in a sheltered little dell beside the water, ferns and other vegetation overhanging it and hiding it from outside eyes, green and verdant.

“Sit down, then,” Charles says after a minute, and Erik realises he hasn’t said anything, he’s just been standing here, as if awaiting Charles’ cue.

Erik sits.

Charles’ body is warm against Erik’s side when he sits down beside him, close enough that Erik can feel the rhythm of his breathing, just like this morning -- in and out, steady if a little fast. “Let’s stay here for a while,” Charles says into the silence between them, shoving a hand back through his hair and leaving it mussed. “The others were so quiet once you left. It was unsettling.”

“All right,” Erik says, and he unfolds his legs, stretching them out toward the water. It takes a second, but he manages to lean back a little as well, reclining on his forearms. Even so, the relaxed posture feels false. “What do you want to talk about?”

Charles doesn’t loosen from his upright posture, elbows resting on his raised knees and head laid upon his folded arms. His next exhale is shaky. “Not yesterday.”

Definitely not that. Something, anything … “You said you used to like to go to the sea, in Westchester,” Erik says. “Tell me about it.”

“About the sea?” Charles’ pause is a brief silence, but a thoughtful one. “It’s not like the sea here. Here, the sea is grey and rough. In the south it’s warm, and it’s aquamarine blue when it’s calm. Deep midnight blue when it’s choppy,” his hand cuts through the air, indicating sharp peaks and troughs, “and green when the sun hits it the right way. Some days it’s just smooth as silk, and so clear you can see fathoms down to the ruins of ancient cities on the ocean floor. I liked to ride on the beach with Raven, just below the tideline where the sand was wet and packed hard by the tide.” He trails off, hand dropping, and looks at Erik. “It’s very different there.”

Erik opens his eyes a few seconds after Charles finishes, not quite remembering having closed them. “I’ve never been to Westchester,” he admits. “I spent two years in the capital, you know. Lots of the nobility had summer homes in Westchester. They’d invite me to go, but I never found the time.”

“Nor liked any of them enough?”

Erik quirks a small grin. “I’m sure you can imagine. Or perhaps you can’t. It may surprise you to learn that I was even more intolerable to your kin at that age than I am now.”

“Mmm.” Charles doesn’t outright agree, but the corners of his mouth curl upward, even as his eyelids slide to half mast, relaxing. “It’s true, many nobles keep summer homes in Westchester, because it’s traditionally a very peaceful duchy and my father was well known as a statesman. We’re an economic holding, rather than a warlike one -- there’s no real standing army to speak of, even now, and it’s beautiful country. Our wealth comes from our orchards, fishing, timber and so on. Trade, with the island nations. A lot of nobles liked to come so they could tacitly approach my father for trade agreements.”

“I met your father a few times, you know,” Erik says. “He wasn’t that much older than me. Well. Ten years, give or take, but I remember thinking it was strange for a Duke to be so young, never mind that my father died and made me Duke even younger a few years later. I can’t say we had much to talk about.” So why is Erik telling him this? “I suppose I just thought you’d be interested to know.”

“He was a hundred times the man Kurt is,” Charles says. “A thousand times. And he loved the land. He died when I was quite young, but he used to take me out to see his favourite parts of the duchy, the golden cornfields in autumn, the pear harvest. He wanted the best for Westchester. Kurt only wants the best of Westchester for himself.” Charles’ colour is high, infuriated by the very thought of his stepfather. “If he couldn’t have it by blood, then neither could I have it. So he sent me away here, and Raven to school, and lets Cain pretend he will be Duke.”

“When does your sister reach her majority?”

“Two years more, all being well.”

“Then in two more years, I expect Raven will find some menial task for Kurt and his odious offspring to do that is both backbreaking and very, very far away.” Erik closes his eyes again, though his lips are still curled up in a small smile.

“I hope so.”

The wind rustles in the leaves around them, stirring the damp air with its wet, earthy scent, the sun warm on Erik’s skin between gusts. After a little while of silence, he feels Charles shift, then slowly lie down beside him, not quite touching.

“I expect, if you could choose for yourself, you would have chosen to marry someone other than me,” Erik says, not quite sure why he’s saying it at all, but too caught up in the odd dissociated reverie of the day to worry over it. “I understand that. Other would-be lovers, perhaps. Kinder men.”

“I would have chosen ….” Charles’ voice is quiet, and his pause is measured. “Well. There were no other lovers. Only alphas who, like you, saw my dowry and name instead of seeing _me_.”

“As Westchester has no standing army, I suppose I was the obvious choice,” Erik says, opening his eyes just a fraction of an inch, vision blurred by sunlight. “Petty thing. My armies are too far away to protect your duchy properly, anyway.”

Charles lets out a wry snort, clothes rustling as he moves. “That’s not why. I couldn’t marry up without marrying the King, whom rumor says doesn't have much interest in omegas, or a Prince or Princess, of which we have none; the only other option was to marry a Duke, unless I was to marry down. And Kurt wanted me as far away as possible from Westchester. So he sent me to the outlands.”

Erik glances over toward Charles, and finds they’re closer than he’d realised; Charles' face is just a few inches from his, cheeks tinged pink from the wind. “Marriage as exile. How … esoteric.”

“It could always have been worse,” Charles says, as though this isn’t damning Erik with faint praise -- as though not being ‘worse’ is better than Charles might have expected. Gilded by the sunlight and with eyes closed, lashes laid dark against his flush, Charles might as well be talking about trade agreements, or housekeeping.

“Worse, in your kingdom’s eyes, than marrying a barbarian?”

Charles finally opens his eyes, and he fixes Erik with a steady, serious look, the line of his mouth soft even as he says, “You could have locked me in a tower and raped me every day until I conceived, then beaten me every day I didn’t. It could have been worse.”

“Is that typical alpha behaviour, in your knowledge?” Erik isn’t sure if he should feel grateful that Charles wasn’t married off to someone like that, or offended that this is the ‘worse’ Charles speaks of, when he says it could have been worse than marrying Erik.

Charles shrugs one shoulder. “Not every alpha is like that. Not even most, but it does happen, and … well. Omegas have very little choice in whom they marry, and have to rely on parental affection to be matched with an alpha who will be good to them. There are not many alphas who would make a deal with Kurt, for instance, to marry their omega child to Cain -- he has somewhat of a reputation, and Kurt … I refused to marry Cain, too. He had every reason to marry me to someone who would punish me for that.”

“And he did, in a way. I’m not exactly known for my warmth.” Erik turns his gaze back up toward the sky, trying to flatten his emotions out once more.

“You don’t have to love me,” Charles starts, but Erik interrupts him before he can go on.

“-- I just have to not be a brutal rapist. Right. I’m sure I can manage that much.”

“You may not be warm, but you’re a good man,” Charles says quietly, and, after a moment, lays his hand down so that just his fingertips brush against Erik’s upper arm, making tentative contact despite Erik’s anger. “You don’t have to love me, and I don’t expect that from you. But … I’m not … you make me uncertain. I don’t know what you are to me.”

Erik dares to glance back at Charles, who looks -- nervous, oddly enough, chewing on the inside of his lip with his gaze caught on Erik, though it only takes a few seconds for Charles to glance away.

“We’re married,” Erik says. “Presumably for life. That’s plenty of time left for figuring out what we are to each other, I think.”

He’s almost afraid of examining too closely what it is he feels for Charles. Ever since speaking with Magda the day after his wedding, Erik has been wary of any signs they might be growing too close -- close in a way that could be dangerous, if Erik isn’t careful. But since yesterday, Erik’s found himself skirting the thought whenever it approaches, as if it’s a question that doesn’t bear answering. Easier to dismiss it wholesale, say it’s ridiculous, and go on as usual. Maybe he doesn’t want to know the answer. Maybe he’d rather deceive himself than think --

Erik cuts that thought off as well, mentally retreating back to the safe grey area he’s constructed for himself over the years, where he just feeds off a constant supply of dull anger, hoarded up over a lifetime.

Charles looks back up at him, examining Erik’s face for something, Erik doesn’t know what -- but whatever it is, Charles must not find it, because he lets out a silent, shuddering breath and closes his eyes. The honesty of his expression shutters itself away, until he’s just ... there, not vitally present the way he was moments before, laid curled on his side, close enough for Erik to feel the warmth of his body. And yet.

Now that he’s had it, of course, Erik finds himself missing it the moment it’s gone. Drags himself back out of that grey space just far enough to feel the bizarre itch of a desire to pull the honesty forward again. He can’t escape the feeling as if he’s glimpsed Charles, truly glimpsed him, that just for a moment, Erik had him, and then he lost him. That he needs to get him back.

“Charles,” Erik says, curling one hand into a fist against the dirt to keep from rolling onto his side and reaching for him. His voice is soft, as if gentle things might lure Charles into opening his eyes again. “Uncertainty doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Charles’ chest rises and falls with his breath, the only thing about him that’s moving, alive, like the sleeping prince in a hearthside tale. “Just ... forget about it.”

“No,” Erik says, surprising himself a little bit when he _does_ turn over and curl his hand around the back of Charles' neck. “No, I won’t. Why should I?”

Charles flinches almost violently when Erik touches him, his own hand jerking up to grab Erik’s wrist as his eyes fly open. He doesn’t pull away, though, even when Erik’s fingers curl into the soft tangle of his hair. “I don’t understand you,” Charles says, voice tight and almost plaintive. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. Too many things. Some of them are clear. Others exist, but in a way I can’t define. But for a moment you seemed like you were _here_ \-- truly here, not hiding behind all these walls you’ve already decided I can’t get inside. You were _here_ , and I liked that, and I want you to come back again.”

The words come without thought or restraint, barely formed in his mind before they’re spilling from his mouth, each one pulling at some cord knotted to the center of Erik’s chest. The greyness feels almost out of reach, now.

The grip around Erik’s wrist tightens, then relaxes, and Charles blinks, swallows, then takes a shaky breath in right before he leans forward to press his lips clumsily to Erik’s. Something clenches beneath Erik’s sternum and he closes his eyes, focusing on the warmth of Charles' mouth and the soft tumble of Charles' hair against his hand, Charles' fingers still curled around his arm. When Erik presses back into it Charles makes a small, desperate sound and shifts closer, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss, licking at Erik’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

The fact that Erik’s pretty sure Charles only kissed him to get him to stop talking doesn’t bother him much. Not when he has the distraction of Charles' mouth and body, feeling the warmth of his skin through his clothes as he smooths his hand down Charles' spine. When he nips at Charles’ lip it earns him a full body shudder, thigh to sternum, as though Charles is still full of that nervous energy, uncertain and wanting.

Erik shifts to bring the weight of his torso off his other arm, freeing it to trace the backs of his fingers along Charles' cheekbone and then along his neck, feeling Charles’ pulse racing beneath his touch. Erik is hot all through, his cock hardening between his legs, and he can feel Charles is in much the same way where their legs are snugged together, their groins pressed tight against one another when Charles pushes closer, hooking his calf over Erik’s knee.

They kiss for long minutes, pushing and sighing, until Charles breaks away, lips wet and swollen as he gasps for breath, staring at Erik with wide eyes that are all pupil. His chest is still heaving even as he darts in for one, two, sweet, fleeting brushes of lips, some unspoken question on his face that Erik can’t read.

“What is it?” Erik says, a little bit lost for air himself.

“I…” Charles starts, but doesn’t finish his sentence; instead he leans in again to press his mouth to Erik’s, slower now, like a plea, and his hands come up between them to push against Erik’s shoulders until he goes with the motion and rolls onto his back. He lies on the soft grass, stiff and aching, as Charles drags his thigh over Erik’s and shifts to straddle his hips, settling there with his hands braced on Erik’s pectorals like he’s expecting to be pushed off.

“Please,” Charles says, and reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it off over his head until he’s pale-chested and bare in the cool sunlight, and so beautiful it hurts to look at him.

Erik’s hands reach out to touch him almost immediately, unable to simply look without wanting to _have_. Charles' skin is soft, like the fine silk clothes he’d brought with him and worn at their wedding. Erik pulls himself up with his hands on Charles' hips to kiss him again, harder this time, hungrier. There’s no pretending that Charles on top of him like this, taking the initiative, doesn’t arouse him.

And maybe it’s not right, maybe it’s inappropriate, on some level, to be wanting Charles when he buried twenty-nine of his own just yesterday -- but there’s something else about this desire, something that has been lurking beneath it since last night, colouring all the half-dreamt fantasies he’d had. Erik’s desperate to feel _alive_ again. Yesterday it felt as if his soul had been stolen from him. He wants to reclaim it. He wants to tell the earth he’s alive, still, that one Frjálsman still lives and needs and exists.

Erik pulls back just long enough to draw his own tunic up over his head before he’s leaning in for another kiss, this time on Charles’ neck, then along his collarbone to where it peaks at his shoulder, dusted with freckles.

Charles’ hands slip up and over Erik’s shoulders to clutch him close in his arms, and Charles gasps and moans as though surprised by his own pleasure, his hips starting to jerk in Erik’s lap and rubbing the hard ridge of Charles’ cock against Erik’s stomach through his breeches. He smells strongly of arousal, the cloud of omega pheromones rising around them and mingling with Erik’s own, and Charles ducks his head to press his cheek against the top of Erik’s head, his fine stubble catching on Erik’s short hair.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Charles asks, blunt and breathless, already reaching between them for the laces of his own breeches, plucking them looser until when Erik looks down he can see skin between the criss-crossing cord, and the dark trail of hair leading downward. “I want you to.”

“Yes,” Erik says without hesitation, his hands sliding down past the loose waist of Charles' breeches to spread wide against the curve of his ass, pulling his hips against Erik even more firmly. He kisses the center of Charles’ chest, his own heart pounding wildly, heat curling low in his stomach. “Yes,” he says again, barely a whisper this time, more to himself than to Charles. “Please.”

Charles’ hands are shaking when he pushes up onto his knees, separating from Erik so he can push his trousers down and bare himself from the waist as well, dark fabric still encasing his thighs and calves even as his thick cock springs free, standing against his belly from its nest of dark curls. He rocks onto one knee and then the other to push his breeches all the way off, and once he’s nude Charles reaches hastily for Erik’s waistband, fingers yanking the buttons open like he can’t wait any more.

He smells wet, like slick and arousal, and it only gets stronger when he tugs Erik’s cock out through the open vee of his pants, long and hard and swollen in Charles’ hand. Charles’ fingers on him are enough to make Erik groan and nip at the base of Charles’ throat, rocking up into his grip.

“Did you know,” Erik says, voice already lower, leaning back to look Charles in the eye, “that in the Frjáls tradition, it’s a velgjörð to have sex on Hvíldardagurinn?” He grins and lets his hands dip lower, fingers meeting the warm wetness of Charles' slick between his buttocks.

“No,” and Charles strokes Erik once, twice, pumping him in his hand and squeezing before he shifts forward to hover over Erik’s cock, brushing the tip of it against the tight pucker of his hole and Erik’s fingers. “I just -- I need it,” Charles whispers as though it’s something shameful, to want to be fucked, and pushes down over Erik’s cock, the ring of muscle resisting at first before suddenly spreading around the thick head. Charles’ body tightens around Erik as he slides onto him, hot and slick, clenching rhythmically even as Charles forces himself down Erik’s shaft until Charles is sat gasping in Erik’s lap, Erik’s cock entirely sheathed inside his wet hole.

Slowly, Erik releases some of the tension in his torso, letting himself rest back down against the ground with his hands still cupping Charles' ass, though he intentionally doesn’t try to force Charles to start moving as much as he wants him to. Let Charles have control. Erik would be happy just looking at him like this, cheeks and chest flushed pink, cock erect, even if it didn’t mean he was buried deep in Charles’ body.

There’s a fine tremor running through Charles that Erik can feel in all the places they’re touching; Charles’ eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted on a silent moan, thighs splayed wide across Erik’s hips. His skin is prickled with goosebumps, though that may be the outside air on his bare flesh. He stays there, still, for a long moment, panting and clenching, before bracing his hands on Erik’s chest and pulling himself slowly up Erik’s cock and then forcing himself back down it, hard.

“Aaah!” Charles cries out, head tipping back, and does it again, the sound echoing in the little dell and mingling with the wind and water sounds, the slap of flesh on flesh as Charles pushes himself up and down in Erik’s lap. When he slips and comes down at a different angle Charles’ voice is loud and sharp with surprised pleasure, his eyes practically rolling back in his head, and he starts to grind himself against Erik there, rolling back and forth and panting open-mouthed as Erik’s cock stimulates his prostate.

It feels amazing, to be gloved over and over in his soft wet heat; Erik is completely enthralled by him, by everything about him and his manner. No matter where Charles grew up, surely this is nothing any Southern omega would dare do to their alpha spouse. And yet Charles is doing it anyway. Erik’s never been more turned on in his life.

He curls a hand around Charles' cock and starts pulling slow, firm strokes along its length -- firmer than perhaps he himself would have liked, assuming that Charles’ foreskin provides him some barrier against the friction of Erik’s dry hand. His own cock is starting to throb inside Charles, desperate for release, to thrust, and it’s only now that it really dawns on Erik that they haven’t had sex in over a day. Compared to how they had been before, surely they both must have been craving it, whether Charles would have said anything or not.

“Please, please,” Charles is saying as he works himself back and forth between Erik’s cock and Erik’s hand, clenching hard again and leaning forward over Erik, mindless with it, his rocking becoming erratic.

Erik can’t help himself; his hips tilt upward, his thrusts almost useless given that Charles has taken him in up to the root. Frustrated and desperate, he grabs Charles’ hips with both hands and lifts him up just enough to let him drop back down again, the head of his cock sliding against Charles’ insides, sending a thrill of lightning up Erik’s spine.

Charles sobs and moans, head falling back, and his fingers curl against Erik’s chest, rising on his knees to give Erik space to thrust into him. “Please, Erik, come on!”

The hard upward snap of Erik’s hips fills the dell with the wet slapping sound of their fucking for the next several minutes, thrusting again and again into Charles’ tight hole as Charles rocks down to meet his thrusts, taking Erik’s cock so sweetly, slick and hot around him. From his vantage point Erik can see himself slipping in and out of Charles’ ass, heat coiling in his groin and belly.

He tightens his hands on Charles’ waist and fucks him harder, and Charles cries out, insides pulsing around Erik as Charles begs, “Knot me, please -- I want -- ”

Erik doesn’t have to worry about disobeying; his cock is already starting to swell in Charles’ ass, nails digging into Charles' flesh as he moves Charles’ body atop him, claiming the friction he needs so badly. When he comes, it’s with Charles’ name on his lips, his back curved forward and his brow pressed against Charles’ sternum, shuddering as his knot grows and he begins to pump Charles full of come.

The tightness of Charles’ body around him locks the knot in place, tying them together, and Charles comes with a loud cry, arching and squeezing down as his cock jerks in Erik’s hand and spurts its seed over Erik’s belly in thick stripes. The cry becomes a low, deep whine, and Charles sags, the hormones released by the pressure of Erik’s knot inside the rim of his hole making him sleepy and gentled, too content to struggle and too relaxed to stay upright.

“Mmm,” Charles says, drooping until Erik has to lie back down so Charles can lay languidly against his chest, draping himself there, warm and close. Erik keeps his hands on Charles’ back, smoothing up and down his torso even as his world only just begins to stagger toward centering itself. Charles’ skin feels hot now, not merely warm, as if he burns with fever. Not heat-fever, not nearly so hot as that, but hot enough that it makes Erik think of Charles-in-heat all the same. He wants Charles badly enough as it is; Erik has no idea how he’ll manage, when there are factors like heat at play. He never even got his trousers all the way off.

His ejaculation has slowed to a steady leak inside Charles, and on top of him Charles shifts every so often, sighing, and rocks a little, as though checking Erik is still fully tied inside of him.

“I hope they don’t come looking for us,” Charles says after a while of comfortable post-coital silence. Since they’re undressed, knotted and covered in come, having fucked outside under the sky in the northern wilderness, Erik thinks, it’s a little late to be self-conscious.

“They won’t,” Erik says, one of his fingers lazily coiling a lock of Charles’ hair around his knuckle. “It would violate mourning traditions. We’re safe, as long as we leave sometime in the next, oh, six days.”

A wry curl of the corner of Charles’ mouth. “I should hope the knot will have gone down by then.” With a distracted look on his face he reaches back behind himself, slow and unhurried, and rests his hand on his own ass, tracing around his stretched-out hole. He strokes it, shivering, stroking Erik’s still-swollen cock at the point where they join, and it feels both over-sensitive and electrifying; Erik makes a tense sound and tilts up enough to kiss Charles’ temple, the only part of him he can reach with the way Charles is laid atop him.

For a moment, Erik almost doesn’t ask. But then the pressure of not-knowing builds up and he finds himself saying: “Why? Why did you -- “

Charles tenses, and his fingers fall away from idly circling the base of Erik’s knot, but otherwise he doesn’t so much as lift his head. “You didn’t object.”

It’s clearly a sore point, or something Charles is embarrassed about. “I wanted you,” Erik says, trying to deflect the focus off Charles and back on himself, and his own desires. “I want you constantly.”

“Oh,” Charles says, and it’s quiet and heartfelt, real; though Charles tries to hide it Erik can feel the way his body melts, the shaky exhalation that shivers across Erik’s skin and the way Charles’ fingers flex, like they want to hold on to him. Something about that _got_ Charles, in a way Erik doesn’t think he ever has before -- connected with something visceral, something Charles needs.

It isn’t hard to put the pieces together: the memory of Cain Marko is still perfectly fresh in Erik’s mind, and he’s heard enough about Kurt to know what he thinks of the man. And he knows what Charles expected of an alpha, when he came to the North. With the exception of, perhaps, his sister or his late father, it’s likely Charles has never felt wanted in his life.

“I know you think I don’t like you,” Erik says, “but you’re wrong.”

Charles’ breath hitches. “I don’t think anything,” he says weakly, but his body has flushed warmer, clenching around Erik’s knot in an instinctive pleasure response.

“Well, now you _know_ ,” Erik says, faintly amused, running his fingers along Charles’ scalp. And Charles -- Charles sighs again, leaning into the caress almost helplessly, everything about him loose and relaxed in a way Erik has never seen him before.

The knot has gone down enough that Erik only needs to pull Charles up a bit to slip out of him, and the instant he does, he’s rolling both of them over, pushing Charles onto his back and kissing him, soft and slow, taking advantage of his new position to smooth one hand down Charles’ body from chest to thigh.

“I don’t dislike you,” Charles murmurs when the kiss breaks, their faces close enough that the tip of his nose drags down the side of Erik’s when he turns his head, the scent of their sex thick around them in the air of their private grotto.

“Well,” Erik says, “that’s a start.” He pushes himself up a second later, a half-smile forming on his lips. “Come on.”

“Come on, what?”

“What do you think?” Erik turns and darts down the grassy knoll, onto the bank of river-smoothed rocks, skins off his trousers, and runs splashing into the river. The second he’s deep enough he launches himself forward into a dive, submerging in the frigid water just for a second before he breaks the surface again, shaking his head to clear the hair from his brow and sending drops of water flying through the air. “Come on!” he calls back toward Charles, grinning manically.

Charles pushes himself up on his elbows, a smile coming to his face seemingly despite himself. “Isn’t it cold?”

“Who are you, to be defeated by a slight chill?”

“Someone who values being able to feel his extremities,” Charles says, but he gets to his feet anyway, coming down to the water’s edge and dipping his toe in, then flinching back. “That’s freezing!”

“It’s good for you,” Erik declares, pushing off the bottom to float on his back, letting the current carry him down a few feet before he rights himself. “Good for the veins, you know.”

Charles shakes his head ruefully, but takes a deep breath and wades in, water quickly rising to flow around his thighs and softened cock, then higher, around his hips. He’s shivering already, but he ducks under the surface all the same, coming up dripping wet and gleaming like a seal.

“See? Not so bad.” Erik dives under again, swimming upstream back to where he can see Charles' pale feet against the black shale rocks before he surfaces again. “Right?”

“Better than returning to camp reeking of sex and come,” Charles says, his tone almost teasing as he bends and twists to start washing his ass and thighs, glancing at Erik from under his lashes.

“Like I said, though. A good deed.” Erik smirks. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” He doesn’t pretend he isn’t watching Charles, though. It’s hard not to watch.

When Charles is done he straightens, glancing along the river before looking back at Erik and reaching up a hand to draw Erik down to him for a kiss, close-mouthed and intimate. Then, while Erik is still distracted, Charles scoops his other arm through the water and splashes Erik from head to waist, laughing out loud and dropping to the water to swim off downstream, ignoring Erik’s yelp of shock.

Charles might be fast, but Erik’s faster; he overtakes him in a few long strokes and catches him around the hips, dragging him back and ducking him under, holding him there just for a second or two before letting go and leaning back, already ready for the backlash. Charles comes up spluttering, but he’s laughing, still, eyes bright, and willing to play.

 

~*~

Later they walk back to the camp together, side by side, and when Erik reaches out to take Charles’ hand Charles doesn’t pull away.

 

 


	7. Seven

_Erik_

There’s snow on the ground, but Erik’s been out here long enough that he barely even notices the cold; he’s stripped off his coat and his shirt, soaked through with sweat, and is fighting Logan bare-chested. Logan pushes him a little further each week; October has passed even faster than September, it seems, and despite how long he’s lived, Logan is even more keenly aware of the passage of time than Erik himself. There’s no set date for when Erik will begin his campaign, but by the way Logan’s fighting, he’s half-convinced they ride out tomorrow.

Erik might be quick, but Logan’s stronger, and Erik’s never been so acutely aware of the fact as he is when he’s been locked in combat with him for going on three hours. It must be nearly dinner time; darkness dropped over the land some time ago. When it started snowing, the servants came out to light lamps around the courtyard, paying little attention to the two men attacking each other with wooden staves.

Logan isn’t flagging. If anything, he’s getting fiercer and more daring. That, or Erik is leaving openings without realising it. It’s rare for him to claim the offensive, and rarer still to manage to get Logan stumbling back across the stone floor. The snow is falling thicker now, reducing visibility; the advantage is to Logan, whose eyesight is far sharper than Erik’s.

A door creaks open along the eastern wall of the courtyard; Erik looks over Logan’s shoulder and fends off a blow as Charles steps outside, trailed by Moira and bundled in furs. Erik keeps expecting Charles to call them off and tell them to come inside, but he doesn’t; he just watches, staying beneath the outcrop of the roof where snow can’t touch him, near the warmth of one of the burning torches.

When they returned to Ironhold two months ago, it became as if they had never left. Somehow, under a familiar roof, they fell back into familiar habits. Well -- more that _Charles_ did, Erik thinks, jumping back over a brazier as Logan forces him into a corner. Logan just kicks the brazier aside, scattering glowing coals across the courtyard, making the field even more treacherous than when it was slick with snow alone.

 _My advantage,_ Erik thinks, ducking a swing of Logan’s staff. He’s faster, and has smaller feet. He can dance between the coals. Logan will be forced to lumber over them, and deal with the pain while his burns heal. Erik takes the opening when he sees it, escaping back toward the center of the courtyard, putting the largest swath of coals between himself and Logan.

It had taken Erik the better part of the past two months to coax Charles back to someplace near where they’d been on the side of that river in the lowcountry. But he sees it as time well spent. He’d rather have Charles’s affection slowly-earned, for good, than to gather and spend it all at once.

He glances back toward Charles again and Logan nearly takes him out for the moment’s weakness; Erik is forced to retreat two steps to avoid letting Logan spear him through the stomach. The gambit costs Logan his footing, though, and even the thick-falling snow can’t hide the pained grimace on Logan’s face or the way he favours his left leg.

Erik forces himself to refocus, swiping at Logan’s knee with his staff, almost hopeful that he can undo the rest of Logan’s tenuous balance in one shot. Overly optimistic, of course; Logan anticipates the move easily and blocks it, and by the time Erik is feinting right and hoping to use Logan’s defensive momentum against him, Logan’s foot has healed, and he regains his ground just in time to prevent Erik from forcing him onto his back and onto the flames.

“I think it’s time to call it a night,” Charles calls suddenly, his voice strong and carrying through the swirling snow. “You’ve beaten each other bloody long enough to admit to a draw.”

A moment’s distraction is enough; Logan parries while Erik’s attention is divided between Logan’s staff and his husband. Erik has to step quick to avoid the coals. Too quick; he registers the slippery feel of ice beneath his right foot just before he loses balance. Pain shoots white-hot up his leg as his ankle twists, and Erik cries out a moment before he lands on his back on the flagstones, the impact stealing the air from his lungs.

He hears Charles say something, voice sharp, but it’s muffled; Erik’s attention is snapped back to the game. He’s on his feet again a split second later, and it’s Logan’s concern that is his undoing. Erik thrusts forward into the gap between staff and body and slams the tip of his own staff into Logan’s chest.

Logan stumbles, his own breath caught, and only just prevents himself from falling back as well. “Nice,” Logan says once he’s steady on his feet, his tone approving.

Erik grins; a second later the pain is back and he groans, taking his weight off his right leg and staggering back into a pillar, holding his thigh up with one hand and hissing between gritted teeth.

He doesn’t realise Charles is there until Charles is right in front of him, mitten-clad hands on Erik’s chest and shoulder, worry creasing his brow. “Are you alright?” he asks, reaching down to replace Erik’s grip with his own, taking the weight of his leg. “You idiot, why did you keep going on a bad foot?”

Erik lets Logan take his staff, transferring his grip to the stone column instead, holding himself up. “It’s fine,” Erik says, same time as Logan points out: “You don’t surrender in battle just ‘cause you got a flesh wound, Chuck.”

“This is hardly a battlefield,” Charles retorts, with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

Erik brushes Charles’s hand away from his leg. “It’s just sprained,” he says, as if that explains everything. He’s still smiling when he puts weight on the ankle, though trying to take a step forward is enough to give him away, pain lancing up his leg with enough viciousness that Erik is forced to grab onto Charles for support.

“Idiot,” Charles says again, but it’s soft and worried this time as he bears up under Erik’s weight, his cheeks flushed with the cold air and mouth tight. “Come on, let’s go inside where you can sit down and I’ll call for the physician.”

“I don’t need a physiker,” Erik says, though he lets Charles guide him back inside all the same. “I’m hardly dying in the streets.”

Inside the air is hot on his chilled skin, and Erik immediately feels overheated; he can’t imagine how Charles is feeling wrapped up in the bearskin coat Erik had had made for him, but Charles hardly seems affected. He supports Erik’s weight easily as they walk over to the cluster of benches set near the fire, and once he’s sat Erik down Charles says, sarcastic, “Yes, we all know how big and tough an alpha you are. Moira, if you could fetch the physician for me? Thank you.”

Erik wants to snap out a counter-order, but Charles is lifting his leg up and setting it lengthwise down a bench, straddling the bench and gently removing Erik’s shoe, and Erik is too distracted to say anything before Moira’s already too far down the hall to hear him.

Logan’s smirking at him from behind Charles’ back; Erik stares back stonily, though he knows better than to think any harsh glare is going to deter Logan.

“It’s swelling,” Charles says after a few moments, shuffling forward so he can elevate Erik’s ankle by laying it across his own thigh. His fingers finally move to the ties of his coat, and Charles strips it off only to fold it and prop that under Erik’s foot as well, soft and plush. “How does it feel?”

“I already told you it’s fine,” Erik says testily, crossing his arms over his chest and pretending not to notice the expressions on Logan’s face. “Injuries happen. I’ll just cut back for a while. All this is unnecessary.”

The fire crackles and shifts next to them, logs settling deeper into the ash, and Charles’ mouth tightens, his expression becoming offended at last. “Well then, I can see where I’m not wanted.” He slides back on the bench, leaving his coat under Erik’s ankle but withdrawing his own support, getting to his feet and looking away towards the Great Hall where the sounds of dinner have started despite their absence. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

Erik manages not to sigh. “Get out of here, Logan,” he snaps. Logan bends into an overly elaborate bow before heading off toward the stairs, whistling as he goes, taking both their practice staves with him.

“It’s not you,” Erik says, reaching up and catching Charles’s hand with his own, tugging Charles toward him. “I just don’t like …” he waves his hand vaguely. “All _this._ And I don’t like Logan smirking at me like I’m a kitten being coddled over.”

“Logan has no concept of normal medicine,” Charles says, still prickly, though Erik thinks his spines are settling a little by the way Charles looks at him, his lower lip now more pout than scowl. “And it’s my fault you were distracted.”

“You were distract _ing_ ,” Erik says, “but it’s my fault if I get distracted, no one else’s.” He smiles, his best version of the smile that’s always worked on Charles in the past when he gets like this, and tugs at his hand again. “C’mere.” His voice is lower. “You smell good.”

“I smell the same as always.” But Charles allows himself to be drawn down into Erik’s lap, sat sideways with his legs slung over Erik’s thighs, his head tucked against Erik’s shoulder. They’re missing dinner, but Charles doesn’t so much as breathe a word of complaint as Erik kisses the crown of his head, luxuriating in the scent of him. Charles just sighs, relaxing into Erik’s hold like he belongs there, fitting perfectly into the curve of Erik’s body. He likes to be close, as long as he knows Erik will let him go if he wants to get up.

“I had a letter from Raven today,” Charles says after a little while, during which Erik did very little but breathe in, ignoring the pain in his foot. “She says things are getting tense along the Eastern border with Svartiland.”

“Oh?” Erik says, affecting a tone of mild disinterest and combing his fingers through Charles’ hair even as his attention reorients its entire focus to Charles’ words.

“Mmhmm.” Charles nods, pushing a little into the touch -- his scalp is very sensitive, Erik discovered while he was working on getting Charles to open up again, and an almost guaranteed way to get Charles’ body soft and pliant in his arms. “From what she’s saying, the King is saying the Svarti failed to fulfil their part of the treaty this year, and they’re arguing that they have, and that the King is looking for excuses to start a war.”

Erik can feel Charles’ slow blink against his throat, Charles’ eyelashes brushing his skin, and the outrush of breath when he sighs, shifting against Erik’s chest. “It’s all trade,” Charles says. “Trade and ships. Everyone knows ships go down all the time, and caravans are robbed, but the Svarti say it was us. It sounds pretty worrying.”

“I’m sure Shaw would send men out to the Eastern duchies were there any real threat posed,” Erik says, trying to sound unconcerned, though already he’s thinking about the possible angles. After all, it could be that the Svarti have taken genuine issue with Genosha, or just a few nobles stirring up trouble. Could be bandits that are really just Svarti soldiers with their colours torn off. Or it could be Shaw’s own men, bloodthirsty and looking to drum up enough dissent that the whole nation will eagerly go back to war.

He traces a finger along the curve of Charles’ ear and tilts his head down to breathe him in again, eyes falling shut, the pain in his ankle a dull throb. “If the change is significant enough for the Svarti to complain, though, then something’s wrong,” Erik says. “Either there are more bandits and pirates, or someone is intentionally warmongering.” He wouldn’t be all that surprised if it _were_ Shaw, come to that. Shaw’s greedy for land.

“It’s frustrating, though,” Charles says, linking his fingers through Erik’s where his hand curls around Charles’ waist. “I was planning on spending the dowry money on Svarti goods to trade here in the north, but if they’re being disrupted so badly it would make for a very poor investment at the moment. Island goods are a possibility, but I’d have to get my factor in Westchester to trade them for me -- they won’t sell up here.”

“There’s always that hole in the Southern market for a good bit of burning-wine,” Erik says, half-teasing, his smile hidden against Charles’ hair.

Charles shrugs. “You joke, but I think there would be a winter market for it. If only I could get a ship or caravan of something else up here first to justify the expense of sending it back down with them.”

They’re interrupted by footsteps approaching from the main corridor, and Charles gets to his feet, slipping out of Erik’s hold before Moira reappears with McCoy in tow, clutching his physiker’s bag.

“Your Grace,” McCoy says, dipping into an uncertain bow; no matter how many times Erik’s told him, he still hasn’t been able to let go of his ridiculous Southern peculiarities of etiquette. “May I approach?”

Erik glances at Charles, lifting a single brow, though he doesn’t say anything to McCoy’s face. He gave up that battle a long time ago. “I’m your patient, McCoy. Go on.”

“He fell and twisted his ankle while sparring,” Charles says, taking pity on the man and smiling at him. “It should just need strapping up, I think, but you’d best make sure he’s not broken it and just pretended it’s fine.”

McCoy nods at Charles again, with a murmured “My Lord,” before he scurries forth to kneel on the floor next to Erik, setting down his physiker’s bag. He reaches for the silver latch but Erik’s undone it with his Gift before McCoy can so much as touch it. McCoy looks faintly surprised, as he always does, even for a man with a rather impressive Gift of his own, and Erik bites back a smile.

McCoy examines Erik’s ankle with stern professionalism, though. It’s part of why Erik keeps him on, despite the misfortune of his Southern birth. No matter how nervous he might get about being polite and not stepping on any toes, McCoy is a damn good physiker’s assistant. McCoy presses along his ankle in half-inch increments; he’s been working in Ironhold long enough to know better than to ask Erik when it hurts, at least. He just keeps an eye on Erik’s face and judges for himself; he and Austmann both have worked with Erik’s soldiers enough to know they’re all too damn proud to admit to pain.

“Nothing’s torn,” McCoy says after he’s finished his examination, reaching into his bag to pull out a length of bandages, and starting to wrap Erik’s ankle. “There may be a crack in the bone, but it’s too early to tell for sure. Keep your weight off it, your Grace, or it’ll be a year before it’s healed instead of a month. I’ll have a set of crutches sent to your rooms.” He tucks the tail of the bandage in and stands. “Keep it lifted up, like you have now, as much as possible. Put ice on it for ten minutes at a time, then nothing for a while, then ice it again. Use the baths, too; it’ll keep the swelling down. Though I’m sure you know all this already, your Grace.”

Charles is looking unbearably smug; Erik makes a point of not looking at him.

“Thank you, McCoy,” Erik says. “Go on back to dinner. I’ll send for you if I need anything else.”

“Moira, you head on to dinner too,” Charles says, turning to her with a distracted smile. “I’ll send someone else to fetch the ice for the Duke’s foot.”

“Of course, sir.” Moira curtsies in the proper Southern style, every inch the servant she’s pretending to be.

Once she’s gone, quiet and efficient as ever, Charles turns back to Erik, and though he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to -- the look on his face says it for him.

“Don’t gloat,” Erik says crossly. “It’s unattractive.”

“I’m not gloating.”

“You absolutely _are_. I’ve never seen you so happy about someone else’s misfortune.”

Charles affects a sad expression, tilting his head like a scolded puppy and letting his shoulders sag. “Better?” he asks, in a dolorous tone.

“Don’t start,” Erik says, but he’s smiling despite himself. “Come on. Help your husband get up the stairs. We’ll have dinner sent up and eat it in bed.”

“Poor old man,” Charles says, eyes crinkling at the corners, and the fondness in his tone warms Erik right through. He nudges his shoulder under Erik’s arm and tucks his arm around Erik’s waist, helping him up and supporting his weight as they start towards the nearest staircase.

It takes a good fifteen minutes for them to make it up the winding steps to the top floor of the keep. Erik hates being injured; usually he’d be taking these stairs two at a time by the halfway point. Being stuck with the wall and Charles in lieu of his right leg makes the progress laboriously slow, especially when his muscles are starting to ache from sparring with Logan.

But they make it, eventually, and Erik has never been so happy to lay back on his bed, even with a stack of wolf pelts folded up beneath his ankle.

Charles vanishes for a few minutes to find a servant to fetch the ice and their dinner, coming back with a short stack of books under one arm that he sets on Erik’s bedside before settling himself down cross-legged atop the covers beside Erik.

“How does it feel?” Charles asks.

“Not pleasant,” Erik admits, leaning forward and rolling his trouser leg up enough to get a good look at his ankle, swollen to nearly twice its usual size, skin flushed. “But I’ll be damned if those physikers are going to drug me up with milk of the poppy. I have better things to do than sleep all day.”

“If you’re in pain…” Charles starts.

Erik shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not. Not to mention it makes me sick to my stomach, and I’m sure you’d rather not spend your days holding the basin under my chin.”

“Logan broke you, he would be holding the bowl,” Charles says, “but all right. I can bring you your papers here, if you want them.”

“Tomorrow,” Erik says. “Tonight I think I’ll turn in early.” He doesn’t want to admit it, but he only won their fight by happy accident; Erik would have been exhausted before much longer.

The snowstorm outside is getting louder outside the shutters as the storm gets closer, their room dimly illuminated by candlelight the makes everything seem warm and soft-edged. In his oversized jumper and thick socks Charles looks soft as well, relaxed with his elbow propped on his knee and his cheek on the heel of his hand, smiling ruefully.

“I’m just glad you didn’t fall on the coals,” Charles says.

Erik smiles, reaching out his hand to pinch the sleeve of Charles’ jumper, idly rubbing the wool fabric between his fingers. “Are you sure?” he says. “You’d have quite a large inheritance to gain from it.”

“It could have been very nasty. I was worried you would, which was why I interrupted. But I might as well have pushed you over myself.”

Erik makes a dismissive sound. “It’s sparring. Logan wouldn’t put me in a situation if he thought I’d be clumsy enough to let it kill me. There are far worse things on a field of battle than some snow and fallen coals.”

“Well, forgive me for not being so sanguine about it,” Charles says quietly, pulling his hand away and laying it in his lap, his sleeve tugging free of Erik’s fingers. But Erik doesn’t miss a beat before his hand is on Charles’ cheek instead, turning his face toward him, pulling him close into a kiss.

It’s sweet, Charles’ lips warm and opening against Erik’s, not chaste but pressing close, letting Erik direct the kiss without pulling away. Charles’ hand comes to rest on Erik’s thigh, bracing his weight there as he leans forward.

When the kiss breaks Charles’ eyes are closed, and he leans his forehead against Erik’s, rolling a little side-to-side like the minutest shake of his head. “Try not to burn to death,” Charles says, “for my sake if not for yours.”

“I’ll make the most valiant of efforts,” Erik assures him, brushing the edge of his thumb against Charles’ soft cheek. A moment later he pulls away, only because of the double-knock at the door, signaling a servant’s arrival.

“Enter,” he says, and Brynjar obeys, carrying two dinner trays in his first two arms, a sachet of ice held in the third.

“Still hot,” Brynjar assures them, setting the trays down at the foot of the bed and passing the ice over to Charles, his third arm stretching out to an unnaturally long length to manage it. “McCoy sent crutches up as well; they’re in the other room.”

“Thank you,” Erik says, dismissing the man with a nod of his head.

Charles is draping the bag of ice over Erik’s ankle, distributing it to either side of the joint, and Erik can immediately feel the cold seeping through the fabric of his trousers and into his skin, soothing on the swollen flesh. “There,” he says, sounding satisfied and sitting back to reach for one of the trays, handing it to Erik. “And there.”

He settles down with his own as primly as if he were sitting at table downstairs, though he’s cross-legged on their bed with his lips still pink from being kissed, in his sock feet.

Erik’s food is still warm: minke whale meat roasted on a skewer, a deep-fried knot of dough, pickled cabbage and turnips, and a blood pudding kneaded with rye flour and oats. There’s even a small fermented puffin egg -- a delicacy these days -- sitting in a cup, next to his glass of burning-wine and mug of fennel tea.

He sets to with a will, and so it takes him several minutes to notice how enthusiastically Charles is attacking his own meal, his usual good manners almost overwhelmed by his appetite.

It’s not that Charles is an especially picky eater -- a blessing given the difference in cuisine between his home duchy and Erik’s -- but this level of gusto is noticeably abnormal. Charles is alternating between his meat in one hand and his fork in the other, demolishing his cabbage and moving on to his turnips without so much as a pause.

“Hungry?” Erik says, both brows lifted, setting his own skewer down and not doing much to hide the amused tilt to his lips.

Charles flushes. “I think my body is preparing to hibernate for the winter,” he says without putting down his fork, his eyes seeming drawn back down to his tray despite the interruption. “It’s all this cold weather. I’m always hungry at the moment.”

“I didn’t realise you even _liked_ minke whale.”

“I didn’t use to, but it’s grown on me,” Charles says, and spears his puffin egg with his fork to pop it in his mouth.

“Apparently,” Erik murmurs, tearing off a corner of his fried dough and chewing it slowly. Come to think of it, Charles _has_ been rather hungry as of late. He was positively desperate for salted seal the other night; Erik had to send someone down to the kitchens after midnight to bring it up for him. Seal being another of the foods Charles had never really acquired much of a taste for, at least not until recently.

He glances sidelong at Charles, who is reaching for his vial of burning-wine, and stops him, one hand flat over the mouth of the glass. “Hold on,” he says. “Lean closer.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.” Erik pushes his own tray aside with his free hand, keeping the other where it is. “Come on.”

“Fine,” Charles says, bemused, and sets his tray down on the bed, shifting over until he’s sat right in front of Erik. “What is it?”

Erik reaches out to curl a hand around Charles’ neck, tugging him even closer so that Erik can lean forward and scent him, burying his nose just behind Charles’ ear, smelling the place where his skin meets his hairline. It’s not definite, not by any means, but it certainly smells _good_ \-- good and _different_ , and combined with everything else, Erik feels fairly confident -- no, not even confident, but _elated_ , or some other emotion he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before -- but there’s no doubt at all in his voice when he sits back to look Charles in the eye and say:

“I think you’re pregnant.”

“What?” Charles’ face blanches as white as the snow coming down outside, then turns strawberry red, and his hands fall to his belly as he stares at Erik, then down at himself, struck dumb by shock, lips parted. It takes a long moment before he says, “I suppose that would explain … you really think so?”

Now that Erik’s seen it, he can’t unsee the way Charles’ skin is almost luminous in the candlelight, his cheeks rounder, and though the lines of his slim body are hidden by his huge jumper Erik suspects that they will have softened too. “Almost definitely,” Erik says, all thoughts of his food forgotten. And now that he’s consciously thought of it, he can already feel the instinct starting to kick in, quiet and almost unobtrusive in the back of his mind, the drive to protect Charles. Protect Charles-and-baby. He touches Charles’ stomach gently, though there’s nothing to feel through heavy wool, and when they had sex this morning Erik hadn’t noticed him showing. “You even smell different.”

“It’s just … I haven’t been through a heat yet.” Charles still looks stunned, his eyes wide as he watches Erik’s hand at his waist. “It’s fairly rare to conceive outside of heat, I thought.”

“It is,” Erik confirms, his own gaze flickering between Charles’ face and his belly. “But we’ve been having enough sex to very nearly make up for it, I expect. Are you -- “ he pauses, and almost cuts himself off, before forcing himself to go through with the question. “How do you feel about it?”

Charles looks up at Erik, searching his expression. He makes as though to speak several times, but each time he falls silent again, cutting himself off before he can begin. Finally he says, tentatively, “I’m not sure? I know this was the reason you married me in the first place, for me to bear your children, but it’s different when it’s real. I don’t feel like I have a baby inside of me.”

“I expect it’s still quite small,” Erik says -- and he can’t help smiling a bit: “Like a seed.” He lifts both hands to Charles’ face, cupping it between them. “You’re young. It’s normal to feel unsure at first, I think. But you’ll be happy soon.”

“You’d be a bit disconcerted too if you found out over dinner that you were going to have a baby and swell up and have to waddle around Ironhold all winter,” Charles says grumpily, but he turns his face into Erik’s touch and presses a kiss to his palm, the curve of his tiny, wobbly smile hidden from Erik’s sight by his own hand, but he can feel it against his lifeline, anyway, along with the warmth of Charles’ breath.

“You should keep eating, now that you mention it,” Erik says, reaching back for his own puffin egg and holding it up for Charles, giving him a pointed look. “I won’t have you starving yourself or our child.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Given the way I’ve been eating, I don’t think that’s a problem you have to worry about.” But he opens his mouth for the egg anyway, taking it straight from Erik’s fingertips.

Erik grins and pulls Charles down onto his back, head propped up against the pillows, and ignores Charles’ noise of protest and the throb of pain in his ankle as he turns onto his own side, pushing Charles’ jumper up to expose the bare skin of his still-flat stomach. Erik’s hand is almost large enough to span Charles’ belly completely. Though not, he reminds himself, for much longer. He tilts forward and kisses just below Charles’ navel. He’ll have to start making arrangements straightaway. They’ll need to find rooms for the nursery, Charles will need new clothes tailored soon enough, they have to hire a wet nurse, and various dignitaries (including the kennari, most importantly) must be alerted to the news. And Erik -- Erik wants to start picking out names.

“I’ll get Doctor Austmann to take a look at me tomorrow,” Charles says, squirming a little under Erik’s attentions -- probably if Erik let him up Charles would stay where he is, but Charles always has to prove to himself that he can escape if he wants to. He’s getting more used to being held, but sometimes it’s like being married to a particularly indecisive cat. “He and Hank can confirm one way or the other.”

“Mmhmm.” Erik’s not particularly concerned about ‘the other’; now that he’s identified the change in Charles’ scent, it’s impossible to ignore it. He only wonders at how he hadn’t noticed earlier.

Charles’ belly rises and falls with his breath, moon-pale from lack of sun save for the fine dark trail of hair under his navel. When Erik’s hand curves over it again Charles lays his own hand atop it, holding it there, and when Erik looks up Charles is smiling, though it’s watery, the corners of his eyes suspiciously bright. “I’m going to have your baby,” he says, curling the fingers of his free hand in Erik’s shirt, holding on.

“Yes,” Erik says, kissing Charles’ knuckles, never breaking eye contact. “Yes, you are.” And he knows it can’t be easy for Charles -- that this child will change everything, that they’re both about to step into the dark of the unknown. But he’s happy. Despite everything -- and even though it seems impossible, that he’d ever be happy that a Southerner would be having his baby, he is. He wants Charles to be happy, too. Desperately. If only … if he could trust Charles with his mind, perhaps, he could share his happiness with him. Let Charles feel it for himself. But instead, all he says is: “Your child will love you more than anything in the world. The way you loved your father, and I loved my mother.”

“I’m fine, Erik,” Charles says, his smile turning fond. He turns onto his side so they’re curled together facing one another, heads on the same pillow, his knees brushing Erik’s, intimately close. “I’m not unhappy, just … nervous, I guess. My body is going to change a lot, and everyone will see that. And then I’ll have to give birth, and after that ….” He trails off, fingers curling in Erik’s grip. “All my life I’ve been told that getting pregnant was my purpose, regardless of what my other plans were. It’s just daunting to have been waiting for it my whole life and for it to finally happen outside of heat, when I wasn’t expecting it.”

“It’s not your only purpose,” Erik says, hand tightening around Charles’. “Whatever people might have told you, you know better than that.”

Charles snorts. “ _I_ told _you_ that when I got here.”

“Well, then, as long as we understand each other.” Erik can’t stop thinking about his child, this very moment growing inside Charles’ body. Waiting for another six or seven months feels like an impossibility. The pain in his ankle is a distant memory, forced aside to make room for far more pleasant sensations.

“So,” Charles says after a while, letting out a long, tight breath. “Can I finish my dinner now or do you have to smell me some more?”

“Go on, eat,” Erik says, still smiling as he pushes himself up, reaching for his own tray and scooping his blood pudding from his plate and onto Charles’, along with the better half of his fried dough knot. “Here. You need it.”

Charles looks exasperated, but he doesn’t turn it down, just picks up his own fork and drags his tray back onto his lap. “Eat your own, too. If you’re planning to sit there and watch me I’m taking this in the other room.”

“I’m eating,” Erik says, and he takes a bite of his whale meat to prove it. It’s gone cold now, but Erik pretends to enjoy it all the same. “See? Delicious.”

“You’re a liar,” Charles says, but he smiles.

 

~*~

 

_Charles_

 

Charles doesn’t really sleep that night.

It’s not that he’s unhappy about the pregnancy, but … he’s filled with joy and anxiety and uncertainty and hope and fear and so many things that he can’t make his mind slow down enough to do any more than doze, at one moment excited and the next doubting this is even real, because it seems more like a strange dream, to think of a child, his child, inside of him, closer than his heartbeat.

He lies awake under covers in the darkness of their bedroom and listens to the snowstorm battering the castle, imagining the thick flurrying snowflakes as they fall from the sky and coat everything in white, falling into the rooftop bath and melting, or perhaps overwhelming it, so cold that they freeze the waterfall into one long and shimmering ribbon of ice.

Erik is sleeping close behind Charles’ back, warm and solid and with his arm curled protectively around Charles’ abdomen, but when Charles tries to ease away to get a little breathing room Erik just tugs him back in without waking, breathing in against the back of Charles’ neck like he needs the scent of him there. Charles considers waking him to demand to be released, but … as much as he wants space, he wants to be close, held secure and safe with Erik. For Erik to want him there, even if it is unconscious.

Charles sighs against his pillow, trying to relax enough to doze. He is happy, it’s just ... now he is well and truly caught, and though he’s starting to realise he trusts Erik never to use it against him, it doesn’t change the fact that Erik really owns him now, inside and out. There is a part of Erik growing inside Charles, changing his body, and there’s nothing Charles could do about it even if he wanted to. Erik has him now, for good, and that’s wonderful and terrifying all at once.

He is happy. He is scared of being happy, and of being wrong. That’s the problem.

Charles must fall asleep at some point, because he wakes up the next morning to see Erik stood leaning against the window frame with one of the shutters cracked open and letting in cold air. He’s looking outside, his back to Charles, naked body limned in white light and snowflakes blowing in through the opening.

“It’s still snowing?” Charles asks sleepily, curled up on his side, and tugs the furs higher up his shoulder.

“Heavily.” Erik’s smiling when he turns around to look at Charles, pushing the window shut. “Did you sleep well?”

Charles blinks, his thoughts groggy. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Not particularly,” Erik says, limping over toward the bed and crawling on top of the furs toward Charles, kissing him on the cheek before settling in beside him. “Why? Do you need more blankets?”

“No.” Charles shifts so that he can press his cheek against Erik’s shoulder, his eyes falling closed again. After his sleepless night he’s drowsier than ever this morning, struggling to stay awake. “There’s snow on you.”

Erik makes a noncommittal sound and slips a hand into Charles’ hair, fingertips massaging small circles on his scalp. A tingling sensation runs through Charles’ skin, first just his head but spreading down to the nape of his neck and down his spine, and he can’t help but make a small sound of pleasure, every muscle in his body relaxing at once. “Mmm. S’good….”

“You need breakfast,” Erik says, his tone brooking no argument. “I’ll have something brought up. What are you hungry for?”

Charles forces his eyes to open and looks up at Erik, trying to blink away sleep. “Hold your…” a yawn, “Hold your horses. I can get it.” He rolls onto his back and stretches out his arms and legs, spreading his fingers and toes wide before subsiding against the mattress. “Hank said…” Charles yawns again, then continues, “Hank said you have to stay off your foot.”

“Never mind what McCoy said.” Erik’s already pushing himself up again, swinging toward the edge of the bed. “I’ll get it. Just tell me what you want.”

“ _’Keep your weight off it, your Grace, or it’ll be a year before it’s healed instead of a month,’_ ” Charles parrots back at Erik, repeating what Hank had said the day before. “Lie down and let me go if you’re so determined to have breakfast now, all right?” He smiles to soften the scold, pushing himself up to sitting and scrubbing his hands back through his bedhead. “It’s late, anyway, isn’t it? You don’t usually let me sleep in.”

“I thought you could use it,” Erik says, though at least he sits back in the bed again, even lifting his leg for Charles to stuff a pillow beneath his ankle. “See that they send up kafei for me, will you? Plain, no cream or honey.”

Charles looks at Erik for a long moment before he gets out of bed, trying to decipher his face, but he’s just as inscrutable as he always is -- Charles can read his expression, sure, but without the mind behind it Charles struggles to really feel that he knows how Erik is feeling, what he’s thinking. Hopefully Erik will interpret the hesitation as Charles’ usual morning dopiness. “Of course,” Charles says, heading over to his wardrobe to fetch his robe.

When he catches his reflection in the long, precious mirrored glass that hangs on the door Charles pauses again, just looking at himself, trying to see any differences. There aren’t many, that he can see -- perhaps more flesh on his bones than before, but that’s it. He doesn’t look … he doesn’t look _pregnant._

He tries to imagine himself rounded and gravid, heavy with child. “I’m going to be fat,” he says, finally opening the wardrobe door and pulling out the heavy quilted wool robe, slinging it around his shoulders so he can tie it closed at the waist, hiding his body away.

“Don’t be absurd,” Erik says, and Charles can feel his eyes on him, even without looking. “You’re going to be pregnant. It’s hardly the same thing.”

“I’m already pregnant. I’m going to be fat,” Charles says, looking over his shoulder at where Erik is sat with his back propped up against the headboard, and feels a fine shudder of attraction run through him, similar to the feeling of having his head stroked before, just looking at Erik. His husband. “You like the way I look now,” he says, making it a statement instead of asking the question he wants to ask.

“I’ll like the way you look when you’re nine months pregnant, too,” Erik says firmly. “I like you-in-general.”

And Charles -- smiles, pleasure and affection running through him from head to foot, toes curling against the cold flagstones as his eyes crinkle at the corners, a palpable feeling of happiness flooding his body and warming him from the inside out. “I like you, too,” he says, and feels daring, even though he can’t make himself wait for Erik’s reaction. Instead he walks quickly out into the antechamber of their rooms and out into the cooler corridor outside, where there is already a servant waiting. The girl seems surprised to see him so late -- it’s in her thoughts, that she was starting to wonder if everything was all right -- but she’s happy enough to go down to the kitchens to fetch their breakfast once Charles explains what’s wanted.

“Thank you,” he says, and she curtsies prettily, smiling at him before he goes back inside.

When he gets back to their bedroom Erik is wrapped in his own, lighter robe; he must have taken advantage of Charles’ absence to get up for it, and is now sitting right where Charles left him, albeit with a book open in his lap. He glances up when Charles closes the door. “What did you get us?”

“I could have fetched that for you,” Charles says, moving over to where he knows the flints are kept and cracking them together to make a spark, before doing the same just over the nearest candle. “I asked for some oatmeal with milk and honey, fresh bread, and whatever they’re cooking for everyone else. Your kafei, and some tea for me.”

It takes a few tries to light the candle, but once he has he can use it to light the others - it’s too cold outside, and too snowy, to open the shutters and let the light in with it.

“I don’t know if you’d be interested,” Erik says, with a nonchalance that’s almost _too_ carefully crafted, “but the Frjálsmen have some herbal teas and potions that are supposed to be good for an expecting omega. I can obtain some, if you like.”

Charles is wandering around the room lighting the candles, but at this he turns to look at Erik, and smiles. “If Doctor Austmann says it’s all right,” he says, setting the last candlestick back on the table. He glances over at the closed shutters, and on a sudden impulse he walks over to open one of them, just a little, looking out into the white world outside.

It’s beautiful, really -- goosebumps ripple across Charles’ skin, but he stays there looking at the harsh environment they live in and feels… good, thinking about his baby, about it being safe and warm inside of him, even if it is very small right now, hardly a person yet. There’s no sense of a mind, no thoughts he can read, but he knows with sudden certainty that it’s there, anyway. His baby.

After they’ve eaten Charles is feeling pleasantly full and indolent, lazy in a way he hasn’t been allowed to be since he arrived in the North -- normally Erik is very avid about constant useful activity, but today, between Charles’ changed scent and Erik’s wrenched ankle, his husband seems to have allowed them both a reprieve. Erik is idly stroking his hand back and forth along Charles’ abdomen, and everything is comfortable and lovely, and Charles thinks, wistfully, _I wish our marriage wasn’t all about leading up to this._ Because as much as Erik seems to like Charles, to want his body and want him around, want him happy, the way Erik is now, his hands and eyes and voice tender and lovingly drawn to Charles’ midsection, is all about Charles conceiving.

“I’d better go down to see Doctor Austmann,” he says eventually, stilling Erik’s hand with his own. “Get it confirmed.”

“Why don’t you have the good physiker come up here, to us?” Erik says. “I can sit with you. The bed’s more comfortable than his table, anyway.”

Charles’ mouth twitches. “Only if you promise not to torment Hank when he has to touch me for the exam.”

“I’ll make a sincere effort not to, but that’s the most I can promise.”

It’s impossible to resist jabbing him just a little, to try and provoke Erik into possessiveness, into showing that he wants Charles for himself. “He’ll probably have to feel all over my stomach under my shirt to be sure,” Charles says, keeping his tone to one of mild worry. “It’ll all be very professional, I’m sure -- both he and Doctor Austmann were very professional when they looked at me before our wedding -- but I can go by myself if you’d be more comfortable not watching.”

“No,” Erik says, just quickly enough to be satisfying. His arm is a little tighter around Charles’ middle, now. “No, we’ll do the examination here.”

“All right,” Charles says, pleased, and has to wriggle himself loose from Erik’s grip so he can get up and get dressed.

 

~*~

 

Doctor Austmann seems to be feeling the cold when he arrives; even in the warmth of their bedroom, the old man comes in rubbing his hands together as though they pain him, trailed by Hank, who seems incapable of leading anyone anywhere. Still, Austmann smiles congenially enough at Charles when he comes over to stand in front of him, gesturing for Hank to bring him one of the chairs from the antechamber to sit on.

Charles himself is sat at the end of the bed, properly dressed in his shirt, waistcoat and breeches, despite knowing that he is only going to have to strip them off for the physician to take a look at him. Erik hasn’t bothered changing from his robe; he’s still lounging at the head of the bed, book propped open next to him, watching Austmann and Hank with narrowed eyes.

“So, I gather I’m here for you, not for your husband?” Austmann asks once he’s settled and Hank is stood awkwardly at his side. “Unusual, for me to make house calls, especially as you seem well enough to walk.”

“Erik wanted to be here, and he’s not able to walk, so.” Charles glances back at Erik before returning his attention to Austmann. “Erik thinks I may be expecting a child.”

At this, Austmann’s craggy old face first turns into a look of surprise, then one of speculation; he looks Charles up and down, taking his time over it. “I’d have heard if you’d gone into heat, so I’m surprised to hear it. Even so. Unusual, but not unheard of,” he says, tapping his fingers against his thigh thoughtfully. “My sense of smell isn’t what it used to be -- Hank?”

Hank startles, then looks remarkably nervous, fingers clenching tightly around the handle of his medical bag. “Yes?”

“Go on then, scent him,” Austmann says impatiently, gesturing toward Charles, who is repressing the urge to laugh. And Erik --

Erik growls. Soft, barely audible, but definitely a growl. Hank flinches, and looks for a moment like he isn’t going to approach, before Austmann nudges him forward and Hank all but stumbles toward the bed.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry -- your Grace. I.” He leans in toward Charles, looking demonstrably elsewhere, and sniffs him from as much distance as he can manage. “I can’t -- can’t tell.”

“I think you need to get a little bit closer than that, son,” Austmann says, clearly amused.

Hank takes another step forward and leans over again, though this time his gaze is over Charles’ shoulder, fixed on Erik, as if waiting to jump back should Erik decide to attack. He sniffs again, and almost immediately jerks away, putting several feet of distance between himself and Charles once more. “Yes,” he says, blanched pale. “Yes, I think so.”

“You _think_ so?” Austmann prods.

“Yes. I mean, yes, he is.” Hank’s voice is firmer now, more professional. “Congratulations, your Graces.”

Charles feels flushed, tingling like pins and needles all through his body, and his hands curl in the bedclothes to hold him upright. “Oh,” he says, feeling almost like it’s a surprise, instead of something he was already certain of.

“I’ll need Hank to palpate your abdomen to try and estimate how far along you are,” Austmann says briskly, his own hands folded in his lap, perfectly sanguine. “Best you get used to one another now, I expect Hank will be delivering you in the spring. My hands aren’t what they used to be, either.”

Hank glances at Erik again, still pale, but he says nonetheless, “If you could please remove your shirts and lie back, my Lord…?”

Charles slowly unbuttons his waistcoat, then his shirt, slipping them free of his shoulders and setting them aside before he lies down on his back on the bed, scooting back so that his legs are only dangling beneath the knee, the furs brushing against his shoulder blades. He feels very vulnerable laid out like that, and more so when Hank carefully perches on the edge beside him and places his hands on the left hand side of Charles’ belly. They’re warm, and a little rough-skinned, almost like the pads of a cat’s foot.

“Tell me if this hurts at all,” Hank says, and starts pressing down gently, working his way across.

Charles tips his head back so he can look at Erik, and finds him sat looking intently at Hank’s hands, barely blinking. Somehow, he manages to look suspicious and smugly content, both at the same time, and Charles watches him instead of Hank as he’s poked and prodded, submitting to the treatment.

“I can’t feel the uterus yet, so less than three months, probably around two, which makes sense,” Hank says, feeling lower, around Charles’ pelvis. “You’ve put on some weight, I think?”

“Yes,” Charles says, as Hank finally stops, looking up at Charles with his hands still pressing in just below Charles’ navel. “And I’ve been exceptionally hungry these past two weeks.”

“A good sign,” Austmann says, patting Charles’ knee. “Well, there’s not much else to be done for it now. Erik has done the hard part already, now you just need to eat and sleep and let nature take its course.”

Charles can’t decide whether to be affronted or not -- Austmann doesn’t mean any harm by it, his mind all paternal warmth and genuine pleasure at knowing the duchy is to have an heir. But to say _Erik_ has done _the hard part_ \--!

“I intend to have him take some of the more traditional supplements, as well,” Erik says, his voice pointed, carrying across exactly what kind of supplements he is referring to. “Charles wants your assurances that this is acceptable.”

The old man’s face crinkles itself almost into pleats when he smiles. “I recall that Erik’s mother took them before his birth, so, I suppose it depends on how you feel he has turned out.”

Charles smiles at that, sitting up when Hank pulls back and reaching for his shirt. “Then you think it would be safe enough?”

“Yes, yes. There are many who think they enhance the Gifts, too,” Austmann says. “They won’t do you or the child any harm, and more likely good, in my experience. First pregnancies are the most likely to be lost, but the traditional remedies do seem to help with that.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Charles says, deciding to take the reassurance by itself, rather than dwelling on the possibility of losing a child he’s only just becoming used to wanting. “And thank you too, Hank.”

He hesitates, then, a question coming into his mind, and looks down at his fingers as he fastens the buttons on his shirt. He can feel himself blushing, but he asks, anyway, “Is it -- should we not be, ah, intimate, now that I’m pregnant?”

Austmann starts getting up from his chair, holding out a hand for Hank to help him lever himself to his feet. “Intimacy during pregnancy should be perfectly safe,” he says, in a straightforward manner that softens Charles’ embarrassment. “I shouldn’t worry about that. Now, I will send a list of things that will be good for you to eat to strengthen the child, and if you have any more questions, you can find me in my office.”

Charles watches them go out with a mingled sense of relief and happiness; now that he knows for sure, it’s difficult to quash the feeling of optimism welling up inside of him, and he’s smiling when he turns to look at Erik.

“I could have sworn I was going to bite his throat out when he scented you,” Erik comments, almost casually, extending an arm toward Charles, beckoning for him to come and sit by him.

The mattress gives under his knees as Charles crawls up to Erik’s side, the bed swaying like a ship under him until he settles against Erik. “He was just doing his job,” Charles says, tipping his head back against Erik’s shoulder to look up at him. “I don’t want Hank, even if he does have very nice hands.”

“I have nice hands,” Erik says, a hair too quickly. He holds one out, fingers splayed, as if to prove it. “You like my hands.”

“I like all your parts.” Charles smiles, reaching out to take hold of Erik’s hand and turn it this way and that, pretending to inspect it. “Very nice.”

“ _Much_ better than that physiker’s assistant’s hand,” Erik says. “Namely, because you know where it’s been.”

“Oh, I know where Hank’s hands have been. He’s very thorough.” Charles can’t resist goading Erik a little more, though he suspects his laughing mouth gives him away. “He’s always been very professional.”

“Maybe that McCoy and I will need to have a little chat,” Erik says, a soft growl back in his voice even as he’s grinning and kissing the curve of Charles’ ear. “Revisit the scope of his professionalism. Logan can come help me demonstrate.”

Charles lowers his eyes, putting on a demure expression and blushing even as he says it, what had been humiliating at the time taking on a new tinge of amusement now. “Well, you did order that I needed an internal inspection before our wedding, so you could be sure I was untouched. It could be said that it’s your own fault if Hank has seen more of me than you’d like.”

“Damnation,” Erik says, after a brief and very alarmed pause. “You’re right.” And despite everything, Charles doesn’t think he’s mistaking the roughness in Erik’s tone. “I’ll have to cut his hands off, now. And gouge his eyes out. Austmann won’t be pleased.”

“You can’t do that to poor Hank,” Charles says, but he feels luminous inside, inescapably light at the possessiveness Erik is showing over him. He sits up onto his knees and turns, swinging one leg over Erik’s thighs so he can sit over him, looking right into Erik’s eyes. “You’ll just have to make me forget about it instead,” Charles says, and smiles.

 

~*~

 

The snowstorm blusters on for the next three days, thick and relentless, and when he finds that it’s finally over when he wakes up on the morning of the fourth day Charles is stir crazy enough that he has to get out of the castle or go mad.

“It’s beautiful out here now,” Moira says as they tramp along side by side, snowshoes crunching against the crisp top layer, distributing their weight evenly enough not to sink in to their thighs. “The storms in the North may be fierce, but they sweep away the refuse of the world and leave it clean and lovely after.” Her cheeks are rosy red from the chill, the fur of her hood fluttering around her face with the slight breeze. She said nothing when Charles told her they were going out, not even to ask if Erik knew he was going or if he would approve, which Charles loves her for.

Her mind is lovely, too, sleek and forthright, and so organised that it’s a pleasure to read. She is always willing to roll up her sleeves and help him, no matter what he asks, and always aware of her task in watching over him and letting Erik know what Charles has been up to. She’s thinking about what to say to Erik later so he doesn’t freak out; Moira is one of the only people who knows Charles is pregnant, and respectful as he has been on Charles’ freedom, Erik has also been hovering for the past three days as though Charles might vanish if he’s not nearby.

“I hope we won’t be getting in the way,” Charles says, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “I just kept thinking about the possibilities with the burning wine and I didn’t want to wait to discuss it with the vintner. I didn’t think about the fact that his family lives out of town, or I’d have thought before this that they must still be digging themselves out.”

Moira shakes her head with a smile. “I wouldn’t worry about that. We’re pretty used to this sort of weather -- Jónatan will be freeing the reindeer from the barn by now and tending to the barrels.” Charles can hear her calculating the angles on possible attacks as they walk, her mind a low-level hum of _Flat enough out here that I’d see them coming, Charles is smart enough to run and I have my knife_ along with a bone-deep certainty in her own ability to take on anyone who might want to harm him. As a maidservant Moira is so-so -- certainly Charles has had more polished service in the past -- but there’s no denying that she is a better companion than any of the non-spies he’s had serve him previously.

It’s sweet, really, that Erik doesn’t know Charles knows about Moira, that he thinks he’s protecting Charles without Charles’ knowledge. Even if at first Moira was supposed to be making sure Charles wasn’t a threat, Erik has long since downgraded her vigilance to bodyguard duty, and while at first Charles was irritated by it he’s come to accept it as simply part of Erik’s overprotective nature. Besides, should it ever become a problem he could put a stop to Moira for good with his telepathy. She doesn’t read his letters, so there’s nothing for her to find.

The landscape out here is white as far as his eyes can see, everything covered in thick snow and the sky above them blue and clear, like looking into heaven. They pause by a stand of trees and Moira points out a group of snow rabbits staring back at them, ears black-tipped and noses quivering, before they suddenly jerk into motion and sprint out of Charles’ sight.

“Was that a mother and babies?” Charles asks, trying to sound casual, but his hands had slipped inside his pockets to touch his own belly, as carefully as if he might somehow crack if he handles himself too ungently, like an eggshell.

“Maybe,” Moira says, shrugging, and nudges him to start walking again, her legs in their unladylike breeches powering away to wade through a patch of soft-packed snow.

They reach the farm not long after that, the buildings nearly hidden in the whiteness like everything else until they get closer; Moira seems to know where it is regardless, but Charles could feel the minds of the family that live there from a way back, warm and chattering away as they work, some of them digging the farm out enough to get around, others cooking or feeding animals or turning barrels. They feel friendly, at least, and when Charles and Moira reach the farmhouse the omega who comes to meet them is all smiles and warm welcome, reaching out his hands to Charles as though they’re old friends.

“Your Grace, I’m right pleased to meet you,” the man says, ushering them inside into the warmth of the kitchen and closing the door behind them. “I’m Robert, this is my parents’ farm. My father will come to greet you, he’s just out on chores. My second sister has gone to fetch him.”

Charles smiles, charmed by the warm welcome -- the townsfolk have always been very friendly to him, but whenever he’s ridden further out he’s more often been met by suspicion than honest hospitality. “Thank you,” he says, shedding his gloves and unfastening the ties of his coat as Moira does the same beside him. “Please, call me Charles. I’m sorry to just drop in like this, but I heard your father is an excellent maker of burning-wine, and I wanted to talk some business with him.”

“I’d heard from town you were interested in trade,” Robert says, offering them seats at the kitchen table and taking one himself without ceremony. He’s a short man, stocky for an omega, with curly dark hair and dark eyes that survey Charles with open interest; but it’s when he thinks, _Magda will be glad to hear more about him_ with an odd, deeper curiosity behind it that Charles’ interest is really piqued.

He’s about to look deeper and find the root of the emotion when the door behind them opens again to admit an older omega, grizzled and crease-faced, who stamps the snow off his boots before coming over to offer his hand to Charles as well, waving at him to sit down when Charles tries to stand.

“No, no, sit, I’m Jónatan,” the man says, shucking his coat and scarf carelessly onto the table and ignoring Robert’s huff. “No need to get up just to sit back down. Rob, Sædís is feeding the deer, you can go help her or stay here as you please.”

“I’ll stay,” Rob says, moving his father’s coat off the table and hanging it over the back of his chair. “Lord Charles here was telling me he wants to talk business with you about our wine.”

“Oh?”

Charles nods, a little taken aback that the head of the family is an omega -- but it’s a pleasant surprise. “My family is big on trade, despite our nobility, and I’m no different. I think the North has a lot to offer the rest of the kingdom economically that’s not being used right now. I’d like to start with burning-wine, so when I asked my husband said you’d be the man to talk to.”

“It might be a small market at first,” Charles continues as Jónatan’s thoughts turn to interest, “but it would be a place to start.”

“Well now, I’m not sure we’d have enough this year for anyone but the Northerners,” Jónatan says, rubbing his chin with one hand and leaning back in his chair. “We can certainly discuss the thing.”

“Wonderful,” Charles says, and settles in for a long chat.

 

~*~

 

By the time they’ve talked through volumes and costs and walked around the farm, Jónatan and Robert pointing out the different aspects of the wine-making process and arguing with one another over how best to scale up if the markets take to it, Moira is thinking very pointedly about the oncoming nightfall and trying not to just tell him they have to leave. Charles has a rough spoken agreement worked out with Jónatan for the next year’s wine, and he’s feeling like he’s accomplished something he can really be pleased with, something to build on.

“Thank you very much,” Charles says to Jónatan and Robert, smiling at them both as they walk back around into the farmyard, coming to a halt in front of the house’s front door. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Not at all,” Jónatan says, his thoughts already brimming over with his own plans and considerations for the venture. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you before you head back up to the ‘fort?”

“No, that’s it, thank you,” Charles says, and turns to Moira to say they should go. He’s just opening his mouth when he feels another mind approaching from the north, a hard, determined mind like a blade, and focused enough that Charles stops before he starts speaking, turning to look towards it as the owner of that mind rounds the end of the barn and walks towards them.

It’s a woman, dressed similarly to Moira in pale thick breeches and high boots, a long coat hanging around her thighs; a red scarf tying her hair back is the only colour on her, shocking against her dark locks, which coil around her face like a cloud. She walks with utter confidence in herself, and Charles can see the short sword sheathed at her waist, her hand resting on the hilt despite her thoughts being fairly calm, thinking only of home.

She sees them standing there at the same time as everyone else seems to notice her, and the woman draws to an abrupt halt, staring at Charles like she’s seen a ghost.

He’s about to say hello when the first burst of her shock wears off, and she thinks, all in a rush like images or a flight of arrows, _It’s Erik’s husband, what’s he doing here, just came home to see Papa, Erik said he was pregnant,_ and Charles reads an image, clear and treasured, of Erik earlier today, foot propped up and sat at his desk in the library, looking at this woman, Magda, with fondness, reaching out to pluck at one of her ringlets and let it spring back towards her, casual and intimate. _It’s all right, Charles has gone out for a while. We can talk freely._

“What,” Charles half-chokes, little more than a whisper, and as Moira looks at him curiously he hears Magda think, wild and trying desperately to shut her thoughts away _shit, this is the telepath, wonder if the baby will breed true, shit -- telepath, mustn’t think about --_

And then Charles sees the worst of it.

A conversation upon the glacier, icy wind cutting at Magda’s face and turning Erik’s face red and chapped as he says that Charles is worth cultivating, worth using, agreeing even if he doesn’t say outright that he should manipulate Charles to get him to like Erik, to trust him, that they should breed him for his telepathy -- Erik knows, has known since the first day they were married and never said anything, Charles realises with a horrible lurching feeling, still staring into Magda’s eyes, every millisecond like a century in his mind.

Magda’s feelings overlaid upon it only make it worse, love and devotion and despair that Erik is married now, a sick feeling of longing in her stomach as Erik tells her that Charles is a telepath, is keeping it from him, can’t trust Charles to know he knows, _Southerner, “He isn’t terribly eager for my company. I can’t say I feel much differently about his, myself.”_.

There are other memories, connected to it, too, that play out as Charles tries to pull away from Magda’s mind, older memories. Erik fucking her, his face less lined, years younger than now, maybe, with both hands laced in her beautiful dark hair, kissing her like he means it as he thrusts into her soft body, caressing her breasts and thighs and murmuring sharp, teasing things to her as she teases him back, clawing at him when she wants him to go faster. Erik looks so young in her memory, and yet Magda knows -- Charles feels ill, because Magda knows even if he never says it out loud that Erik still loves her, would have married her, if not for Charles and their people’s need for his -- his _Southern uterus_ \--

 _Broodmare,_ Charles thinks, and hears Erik’s voice cutting through him like a knife: _he’s manipulative, he’s childish, and he’s a blackmailer._

Charles wants with sudden urgency to be violently sick.

“Rakel, what are you doing home?” Jónatan says, delighted, and Magda says, sounding sick herself, her thoughts a litany of _shit shit shit shit,_ “It’s Magda now, Papa, remember?”

“We should get back to Ironhold,” Charles hears himself say as if from a great distance, his eyes still locked with Magda’s, helpless to break away from the fact that she is beautiful, and Frjáls, and that everything that has happened between him and Erik is a lie. She’s looking back at him like she almost pities him, her thoughts all horror and swearwords, wondering how much he’s heard. “Thank you for your hospitality, Jónatan. I’ll have someone come down to see you in the spring if I’m not able to myself.”

“No trouble, any time,” the man says, still beaming at his daughter, and Charles takes one step, two, backwards, before he turns and with a great effort of will walks away instead of running like the fox chased by the hounds.

 

~*~


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now a wonderful Chinese translation by wangzaifengfeng of the first chapter of this fic, which you can find [here](http://www.mtslash.com/thread-112236-1-1.html)!
> 
> wangzaifengfeng和Jin_C_E在随缘居上翻译这片！感谢翻译，你们的翻译真是太美了！
> 
> Also, it's my (tahariel's) birthday tomorrow! Not that that's relevant, but I thought I'd say anyway to make sure you're nice to us this chapter ;D Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter, we've been absolutely blown away by the response and we're very grateful.

_Charles_

The snowy world left behind after the storm had seemed so magical and strange earlier, on the way out to the farm. But now that Charles is struggling against it and wanting to be anywhere but here, the rolling landscape is barren and threatening, becoming sinister as night begins to fall over the mountains. He can hear Moira trying to catch up with him from behind, calling for him to wait, but Charles can’t make himself stop. His heart is pounding in his chest and the air burns his throat as his lungs labour in disbelief.

Erik was using him from the start, and Charles has been such a fool, to fall for the spoonful of honey that only masked the same old medicine.

He can’t stop thinking about what he saw in Magda’s mind. Erik calling him childish, dismissing him, agreeing to manipulate him to get what he wanted from him. Erik, freed of his pretence and just like everyone else, wanting to _breed_ Charles like he’s a prize bitch instead of a person, to breed his telepathy into his children, like _puppies_ \--!

Erik making love to Magda as though she was the only person in the world he could ever love, the way Charles thought... Charles thought...

 _Oh,_ Charles thinks, now. The revelation rolls over him like a cresting wave, new and inevitable and dragging him under, all the air pushed out of him in a rush and leaving him breathless. His feet halt of their own accord as his hands knot into fists, one coming up to press knuckles over his mouth, white and bloodless. _Oh,_ he thinks, as his heart clenches tight in his chest. _I thought -- I thought he loved me._

The world is silent around him, just snow and ice and the falling sun making the shadows long.

“Your Grace,” Moira says from behind him, her footsteps slowing as she catches up and comes around to his side so she can see his face. Her eyes are concerned, even if her face is carefully neutral. “Is everything alright?” she asks aloud, but in her head she’s thinking, _I need to tell the Duke about this, something has clearly happened here to upset him._

Charles’ stomach clenches tight. Gods. If Moira tells Erik about Magda, there’s no way that Erik won’t work it out, and that would be -- that can’t happen. He turns to look at Moira and forces himself to smile and say, “Everything is fine, thank you,” even as he reaches out with his mind to pluck the memory from Moira’s head.

It’s slippery, silk-like, and like all memories it resists removal, but only for a second -- it’s too new to have truly embedded itself, and Moira forgets that Magda was there as easily as she might forget a handkerchief, or the precise colour of a flower, as though it never happened. Once it’s gone she just smiles at Charles, oblivious, and says, “Let’s get back to Ironhold before it gets dark, then,” tugging her fur-lined hood closer around her face and gesturing uphill for Charles to follow.

He starts walking again beside her and winds the thread of memory away like a silver skein in his mind, heartsick and hating himself as they work their way upward towards the crest of the hill, snowshoes slipping in the thick drifts and going arm-in-arm in places. But, Charles tells himself, Moira is Erik’s spy. And most spies are injured, or killed, if discovered -- it’s the nature of things, and if Charles chooses simply to take from her what he doesn’t want known, without harming her, then that makes him better than most.

It doesn’t get rid of the bad taste in his mouth.

If Erik knows that Charles has found him out, one of several things may happen. Either Erik will show his true hand, and stop pretending he feels anything for Charles, and they can acknowledge that this is a business arrangement, and nothing more. Or Erik will switch tactics, from softly-softly to brute force, no matter what he’s said before. If nothing he does can be trusted, then neither can anything he says. Or... and this possibility is worst of all… he might force Charles not just to bear his children but to use his telepathy for him, against Charles’ own people, and use physical force and Charles’ own baby against him to make him do it.

Charles can’t, won’t, let that happen. If Erik is going to try and manipulate Charles, lie to him, use him, then Charles is going to do the same right back. Which is why as he and Moira walk he reaches his mind out behind him to the farm, to find Magda’s mind, still roiling and furious with speculation and anger and fear over what she may have revealed.

Magda’s mind is like a storm, intense bursts of feeling and thunderclaps of memory and self-recrimination, but it only makes it easier for Charles to slip inside and take a cold, pragmatic look at what he has to work with.

The memory of Charles staring at her, horrified and heartbroken in the farmyard, would be easy to remove if it weren’t for all the connections to other thoughts and feelings and memories that Magda is already building around it. Taking it out would require a lot of deft work that Charles simply doesn’t have the concentration for right now, and so instead he decides to take a simpler, rougher route.

 _You will not tell Erik about meeting me today,_ he says directly into her mind, and she jolts at her father’s kitchen table as though she’s been electrocuted, the sound of his voice in her head sending panic through her as she realises what it means. 

_You can’t -- don’t do this --_ is all Magda manages to think in return before Charles continues,

 _You cannot tell anybody you met me today. You cannot hint at anything to do with my reading your mind, or seeing you, or knowing who you are. If you try you will not be able to. I’m not going to hurt you, because I am a better person than you are. But you should probably stay far away from me and my child._ Charles presses the words into her brain as a command, forcing them past the conscious and into her subconscious, lizard brain, embossing them there like holy writ, his anger and pain making the order strong despite his own agitation.

With that done, before she can think anything else Charles draws his mind back across the mile of separation into his own head and bends forward to retch hot bile into the snow.

“Are you ill?” Moira asks, oblivious and worried, and all Charles has to say is, “Probably just the baby,” for her to subside and smile at him instead.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Everything inside him feels like it’s been scorched, but then, that’s what you get for wilfully putting your hand in the fire and expecting not to get burnt. It’s just --

Charles really had. Thought. That maybe Erik loved him, at least a little. And Charles… giving it a name, putting words to how he feels -- felt, about Erik, about the Erik he thought he was, seems foolish now.

The way back to Ironhold is long and tough in the semi-dark, but it’s a clear night and the moon is nearly full, which makes the snowfields gleam and glow, the loose flakes blowing in the sharp wind glittering as they catch the light. Charles’ legs move mechanically to carry him home, and he loses himself in the rhythm of it, Moira content to keep silent at his side.

When they finally reach the fortress Charles dismisses Moira despite her offers of assistance with his coat and boots, and in the absence of any better ideas he heads for the back stairs while he tries to decide where to go that he will be left alone to think.

 

~*~

 

Later that evening Charles sits at the dressing table in the guest room where he stayed before his wedding, looking at himself in the tall, age-spotted mirror that stands upon it and schooling his face to calm every time his mask wavers. The corners of his mouth are fighting to turn downwards, but he forces them to mildness. His brow threatens to crease, and this he struggles with, until he has to physically press his thumb against the line that has appeared between his eyebrows and smooth it, rubbing it out like a blot on fine parchment.

The room is dark with only the one candle lit that he brought in from the hall, and the furniture is covered in sheets to keep the dust from the furnishings while it is not in use. It gives the room a melancholy and empty feeling, unlived in and unloved. Nobody will look for him here. Charles can concentrate on deciding what to do next, now that the scales have fallen from his eyes.

In real terms, unemotional, objective terms, nothing has changed. Charles is married to Erik, and is carrying his child, regardless of how Erik feels about Charles. Erik has been on his best behaviour keeping Charles sweet, and there is no debate required to see that it is in Charles’ best interest for this to continue. There’s no way of knowing how Erik would react if he knew that Charles had found him out, and how much less comfortable Charles would be.

So. Charles will have to play dumb. He knows nothing, has heard and seen nothing, and as far as Charles is concerned he has to act as though Erik does not know Charles is a telepath. It may be … if Charles is honest with himself it will probably be impossible to be as unguarded, as warm, as he has been. It’s no good trying to pretend that he still ... that he is still falling in love with Erik.

Gods, that thought hurts. Charles presses his knuckles to the ache in his breastbone and rubs down hard, massaging it as though he could erase that ache as easily as the line between his brows, and then reaches for the parchment and ink that he brought in here with him, uncapping the inkwell and picking up his quill.

The letter he writes to Raven is succinct and carefully worded to avoid mentioning anything he would not like anyone but his sister to read, but once he has dispensed with the inevitable -- his pregnancy, and Erik’s true feelings -- Charles gives more specific instructions.

 

_Please give my regards to our dear friends, and thank them for their very kind wedding gift of carved ivory, which was much admired here. I would be very grateful if you could let them know that I think of them often, and that both you and I speak very highly of them to our acquaintance. I understand that they are troubled by petty squabbles with their neighbours, and I have every sympathy, for as you know we too have had troubles with our neighbours before, and found them difficult to resolve -- remember when the House of Essex tried to levy a tax on our merchants for passing through their lands? I hope they can all become better friends soon, but in the meantime they should not lose heart in standing their ground, for submission only wins further indignations. Essex backed down soon enough when we made it clear that we would simply redirect trade around them, and cut them out of the loop altogether._

 

Charles lays down his quill and rereads the last passage to make sure it will be clear to Raven; carved ivory should be simple enough, as one of the Svarti’s most treasured artforms, and the rest should follow once she has that. Raven is smart enough to understand that Charles has been writing to both the Svarti and to other sympathetic nobles within the kingdom of Genosha, asking them to support the Svarti and encouraging the Svarti themselves to continue making trouble for King Shaw.

It’s a good distraction from Charles’ own problems, thinking about politics and the machinations required to achieve his goals. The more the Svarti make noise about Shaw’s warmongering and make it clear that he is deliberately stirring the pot, trying to incite a reason to fight, the less support Shaw will have from nobles who might otherwise go along with his plans if the Svarti were provoked into attacking first. And the more dissent there is within the kingdom, the less power Shaw has, and the more unstable his rule becomes. As long as the king rules with an iron fist, he will keep all of his atrocities quiet enough that nobody will ever do what needs doing and replace him with a ruler who will not betray his subjects at every turn, in secrecy and under cover of his power. And one who will not live forever, without even death to check their tyranny.

More than anything, Charles wants to be able to be free to use his power without fear. For that, he would give almost anything.

He’s finishing off his letter when he feels the telltale tug of his wedding ring on his finger, and he stiffens in his seat, looking up at himself in the mirror as the door opens behind him.

“What are you doing in here?” Erik says; Charles can see the amused half-smile on his face in the mirror’s reflection, but even knowing it’s false, Erik wears it so well that it would be too easy to forget. “Do you miss your old rooms so terribly?”

Charles is quiet for perhaps a beat too long as he tries to decide how to answer, his fingers concentrating on folding the letter to Raven and hiding its contents. “I was only in here a few days, hardly enough time to get attached,” he says eventually, without turning around. “It was quiet, that’s all.”

“And dark,” Erik notes.

“Mmm.”

“Are you all right?” Erik limps further into the room, crutch wedged under his arm, and falls into shadow as he moves away from the door, toward Charles. “Is something the matter?”

And Charles -- pulls the act of what Erik expects over himself like a costume, pressing his mouth into a smile and twisting to look at him over his shoulder, letter clasped in his lap in one trembling hand. “I’m fine,” he says, swallowing down the lie and crushing it down where he can’t feel it as acutely. “I just wanted to find somewhere I could sit and think. I didn’t need much light for that.”

“Is your library unsuitable?” Erik asks, his hand coming to rest on the back of Charles’ neck as he stands behind his chair. “Should I find you somewhere else?”

The touch makes Charles’ body flush with instinctive heat first, but in the moment after that Charles’ skin _crawls_ , cold and shrinking to his bones, and it’s all he can do not to pull away, to lash out violently and scream at Erik to leave him alone, to stop pretending.

“Haven’t you ever just wanted a change of scenery?” Charles forces himself not to tense and looks back at the mirror, looking his husband’s reflection in the eye. “There’s no need to fret so. I’d tell you if something was wrong, Erik.”

“I’m sure you would.” He puts his crutch aside and settles both hands on Charles’ shoulders as he leans over, kissing the side of Charles’ neck, lips hot against Charles’ skin as one hand slides down over his chest to rest atop his still-flat stomach. “It’s almost time to eat,” Erik says, tugging Charles’ collar aside to bare more skin. “Will you be coming down?”

Charles can’t help it; his eyes squeeze closed for a long, helpless second of despair as his heart hammers in his chest like that of a frightened rabbit, trapped in Erik’s hold. “Of course,” he says, and if his voice sounds normal then it feels like a small victory. “I just need to seal this letter and I’ll come right down.”

“Good.” Erik’s teeth catch the lobe of Charles’ ear before he straightens once more, hands lingering on Charles’ shoulders, squeezing Charles’ tensed muscles. “You are such a distraction,” Erik says, thumb skirting the skin he’d kissed a moment before. “Now more than ever, it seems. I can think of nothing but you.”

“I think of very little else but you today,” Charles says, honestly, and pulls away.

Standing up forces Erik to hop back awkwardly as the stool Charles was sitting on is pushed by his legs, the additional space allowing Charles to feel as though he can breathe again. When he turns Erik is giving him a measuring look, the slightest of frowns on his face. It’s clear Erik can tell that something isn’t quite right, even if he doesn’t know what it is.

“You don’t need to wait for me, I won’t be long,” Charles continues, voice bland, and thinks, _calm, calm, calm._

“I‘ll see you there, then,” Erik says, and pulls away as if with great reluctance, reaching slowly for his crutch. Charles just smiles and waits, tense and restraining himself from trembling with suppressed emotion until Erik finally leaves the room and Charles can sag against the dressing table behind him, covering his mouth with his hand to contain the shaky sound of his breath, finally exhaling in a rush like a sob. He hadn’t even realised he was holding it in.

Charles is quiet and awkward over dinner, despite Erik’s attempts at conversation. It doesn’t seem to matter how hard he tries to pretend that everything is all right, his internal conflict seeps through anyway and colours his every move, until it’s as much as he can do to maintain the outward appearance of neutral, placid contentment. His food he eats almost mechanically, barely tasting it as he puts all of his energy into the lie.

By the time the meal is over Charles knows that Erik is building up to asking again if everything is well with him, and the thought of having to tell him over and over that nothing is wrong when everything is wrong makes Charles feel heavy almost beyond endurance. He climbs upstairs to their bedroom as though his feet are made of iron, and does not offer to help Erik despite his husband’s lurching step, wanting to outpace him but instead caught walking at a glacial pace, waiting inevitably for Erik to follow.

Once they’re alone again, the door of their bedroom shut behind them and their gazes lit only by candlelight, Erik says: “Is it the baby?”

“Is what the baby?”

“You’re upset,” Erik says, closing the distance between them in a few awkward steps, touching Charles’ hip almost gingerly. “I know you have some reservations about this.”

It’s a gift of a missed guess, one Charles could run with very easily. But he can’t help but feel like it would be betraying his child to let it take the blame, no matter how small and ungrown it is at present. To let Erik believe he is unhappy about the pregnancy galls him, but … still. Still. Everything relies on Erik not realising that Charles knows.

“It’s just nerves,” Charles says, after too long has passed for him to stay silent.

“What worries you?” Erik tugs him toward the bed with his free hand, toeing off his shoes at the edge before sitting and pulling Charles down after him. He lets the crutch fall to the floor with a clatter that he ignores. “Austmann is the best physiker in the North. I won’t let anything bad happen to you, or to the child.”

Charles tries to lean against Erik’s side the way he would have yesterday, forcibly relaxing his muscles one by one. Erik is solid and warm, his arm easy around Charles’ shoulders, trapping him there. “It’s nothing specific,” he tries.

Erik’s fingers curve under his chin and tilt his face upward, forcing him to look him in the eye. “You’d tell me, if there were,” he says. Charles thinks he is starting to discern between when Erik is asking a question, and when he is making a demand.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Charles tugs his chin free of Erik’s hand, annoyed at being so minutely manhandled. “Not everything is something you can just fix.”

A crease lines Erik’s brow as his lips turn into a frown. “Fine,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll leave it be, then.”

“Please,” Charles says firmly, and reaches down to start untying his bootlaces, bending forward so he can reach his feet. He stays there to remove his stockings, a good excuse to avoid sitting upright once more; he has to pull up the legs of his breeches to gather them down his shins, rolling them down and off slowly, taking the time to recompose himself so that when he does sit back up and turn to face Erik he is calm again, extraneous emotion tucked away out of sight.

He considers laying his head on Erik’s shoulder, the sort of affectionate gesture that might soften Erik’s irritation with his behaviour today and smooth it over, but no matter how hard he tries Charles cannot quite bend his neck enough to do it. Erik is still looking at him, though the dim light makes his expression particularly unreadable, even more so than it usually is. 

Erik’s gaze doesn’t waver from his face as he touches the tips of his fingers to Charles’ cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, the kind of thing that used to make Charles so certain … . Erik leans in and kisses him, his own eyes still only half-lidded, slow but firm and insistent all the same. The flame of arousal that lights up Charles’ body is tempered by a wave of self-loathing and revulsion that makes it hard not to shove Erik away, and harder still to part his lips and kiss him back, licking at Erik’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

This is only going one way, and that’s to Charles laid out on the mattress, allowing Erik to fuck him. When Erik deepens the kiss, sliding his fingers into Charles’ hair and tipping his head back -- his usual preliminary to pressing him down onto the bed -- Charles closes his eyes and decides to just ... participate, and endure, and take what pleasure from it he can, even though the thought of being that close, that intimate with Erik, knowing now that Erik doesn’t care for him, that he is just acting, makes Charles feel sick.

Erik’s mouth moves down his throat, kissing the dip between Charles’ collarbones as he guides Charles down, one hand supporting the small of his back, to lie against the furs. Erik’s larger body moves to kneel over him while Erik’s fingers wander down to tug the hem of Charles’ shirt free and slip underneath. He seems to take immense pleasure in baring Charles’ stomach, broad palms stroking over it covetously and bunching Charles’ shirt up under his armpits.

Charles moves his hands so he can place them on Erik’s head, cupping it against himself as Erik works down to his nipples, and he moans when Erik takes the right one into his mouth, nipping and sucking on it gently. It feels intensely sensitive, much more so than it used to, and Charles squirms, fingers curling against Erik’s scalp. There’s a hot burst of breath against his skin -- Erik smiling, perhaps. His power is already working at the bronze buttons of Charles’ trousers, Erik’s hands taking over to pull them down past Charles’ hips, sitting back awkwardly on his knees to tug them off entirely.

Charles lies there naked on the bed while Erik just looks at him, flushed and hating himself for being half-hard, his cock lying firm and weighty against his thigh. Erik is hard, too, the front placket of his trousers tented over his erection, and the muscles of Erik’s chest ripple as he tugs off his own shirt, shoulders flexing and hair mussed when he emerges.

“I want to lie on my belly,” Charles says, taking in a shaking breath and pushing up onto his elbows. At least that way Erik won’t really see his face. “While I still can.”

Erik obliges him, stripping Charles’ shirt up over his head for him before allowing him enough room to turn over onto his stomach, ass bared upward for Erik’s use. He can hear the rustle of fabric as Erik undoes his own trousers, and then the sound of cloth hitting the floor. A moment later Erik’s hands and mouth are on him again, caressing his rounded cheeks, kissing the indentation of his lower spine. Charles folds his arms under his head and tucks his face into them, breathing into the dark space between his arms and the bed, and moans, traitorous pleasure running through him from the heat of Erik’s mouth, spreading out from it and tightening everything in his lower body, his stomach and groin drawing up and in with arousal.

The hands that rest on his ass and spread his cheeks to bare his hole for inspection are the same hands that fisted at Erik’s sides when he told Magda how much he hates Charles, how he only wants him for breeding, Charles thinks, somewhere deep inside the kernel of ice that sits unmelting in his heart, making all of this bedplay feel disconnected from reality, from himself and his physical self. Well, at least Erik’s enjoyment of using his body seems genuine. Charles can smell Erik’s arousal, deep and alpha, rising around them like a fog as he rubs the pad of one finger over Charles’ hole, testing him for slickness.

Charles sighs, and though his back and shoulders are tense and tight with anxiety he spreads his legs a little to make more room for Erik to tease his entrance, fingertip dipping in and out of him where Charles is slick and ready, stroking over the sensitive ring of muscle and sending shivers up Charles’ spine.

“You’re quiet,” Erik murmurs, one hand smoothing up Charles’ back, past his shoulder blade to slide into Charles’ hair.

“Does that bother you?” Charles turns his head enough to let Erik see his face in quarter profile, his eyes closed. The finger presses deeper inside of him and Charles’ body involuntarily clenches around it, his cock twitching where it’s caught between his belly and the mattress. “I can make noise if you want.”

“It doesn’t bother me. It was just an observation.” Erik draws his finger out and grips Charles’ ass cheek instead, squeezing slightly. His thighs shift on either side of Charles’ body, the mattress swaying as Erik moves, and then there’s the close weight of Erik’s body above him as the head of Erik’s cock presses bluntly against Charles’ ass, slipping a little at first until Erik reaches down and lines himself up so he can push inside.

Charles’ hole stretches wide around that thick shaft as it penetrates him, rippling around it and sending warm, throbbing arousal through Charles’ body, laying prone as he is under Erik. Being full and connected feels -- _Gods_. Charles cries out softly, his shoulders hunching and arms curling in toward his torso, defensive against the physical pleasure he still feels from being entered. Erik is inside him, over him, elbows braced close on either side of Charles’ body so that they’re close enough to breathe together, chest to back.

Erik bottoms out, groin snug against Charles’ ass, and oh, if only. It would be easy to mistake the way Erik kisses the side of his neck as adoring, to think he really cares when he handles Charles as if he’s something beautiful and delicate. But Charles knows better. He refuses to fall for it anymore. He’ll take it, when Erik wants him, and try to think of it as a small price to pay, the way he would have months ago, if Erik had just been honest.

Charles clenches, and shudders at the way the cock inside of him feels, broad and hard and thick inside of him. When Erik pulls back, withdrawing almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and steady, Charles can’t quite keep from letting out a whimper.

Erik fucks him slow, with purpose, his own groans always muted by his lips against Charles’ skin. The slide of their bodies together and apart feels like the tide washing in and out, like waves, and Charles is the shore -- eroding, slowly, under Erik’s thrusting hips and covetous hands.

He feels subsumed, lost, longing for something he only thought he had and wanting both to cling to Erik and throw him off. His toes curl whenever Erik fucks into him especially deeply, cock rubbing along Charles’ inner walls and using him, marking him, owning him. Sometime between when Erik’s hands move to hold Charles’ hips and when Charles spreads his legs further to get enough leverage to push back against him, Charles realises that there are silent tears rolling down his face, wet and salt-tasting on his tongue.

He tries to wipe them away against his folded arms, but he can feel it when Erik suddenly notices them, because the steady rhythm of his hips stutters, his cock still buried inside Charles’ ass.

For several long seconds, Erik does nothing -- doesn’t move, doesn’t speak -- until Charles turns his face away into the space between his arms, hiding his expression even as he makes himself push back against Erik’s hips, trying awkwardly to distract him. It doesn’t work; Erik’s cock is already starting to go soft by the time he pulls out of Charles.

“It’s nothing,” Charles says, but his voice is thick in his throat.

“It’s not nothing,” Erik says; his hand is on Charles’ back, smoothing small circles between his shoulder blades. “Charles, you have to tell me what’s going on. I can’t help if I don’t know.”

 _You’ve known all along that I’m a telepath, and you’ve said nothing, just decided to use it against me and hope it breeds true,_ Charles thinks.

He knows he ought to make some excuse. Say something, anything, to make this normal, to continue the pretense that everything is fine. But he can’t. It’s on the tip of his tongue to blame being pregnant, claim that it’s just some omega mood swing, but… he stays silent, face-down on the bed, wet-faced, slick and empty and feeling lonelier than ever, his own reflexive erection fading.

“ _Charles_ ,” Erik says again, hand going still.

So Charles resorts to what he always says when he doesn’t want to answer. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that?” Erik moves closer, the mattress shifting under his weight. “Of course it matters.”

 _Stop pretending!_ Charles wants to scream at him, hit him, but instead he pushes himself upright to sit with his back to Erik, kneeling with head bowed, hair falling across his forehead, for the few seconds it takes to compose his expression into something neutral, palatable. He turns to look at Erik with everything that means anything tucked away and hidden, only the tear tracks on his cheeks to give him away. “I’m fine,” he says, “don’t worry,” and makes himself lean in to press his lips to Erik’s.

Erik’s still frowning when Charles pulls away, even as he lifts a hand to brush a tear from Charles’ cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You really expect me to ignore this?” he says. “All evening, it’s been as if you aren’t here.”

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Erik’s hand drops away, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line. “Very well.” 

He moves away, finally, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pulling his trousers back on, yanking his shirt over his head. He doesn’t say anything, but the roughness of his movements betrays his frustration all the same -- and there’s almost something disdainful about the way Erik throws Charles’ clothes at him before grabbing his crutch and hobbling toward the door that leads up to the roof.

Charles doesn’t call after him.

 

~*~

 

_Erik_

 

It’s more difficult than he’d accounted for, stomping up the stairs with one leg out of commission -- but he manages it all the same, fueled by a mix of confusion and irritation.

It’s bitterly cold, and he’s barefoot, but he isn’t going to turn around for that reason alone. The stone steps are dusted with snow near the top of the staircase -- it must have blown in through the crack under the door -- and once he’s on the roof itself, the wind has nothing to break its rippling path across the summit of the mountain, not until it hits the icy slopes of the glacier some leagues away and is forced to delve down toward Ironhold once more, tearing at Erik’s hair and clothes, angry, demanding. The night is black enough that it obscures the falling snow, but Erik can feel the sting of each flake on his bare arms and face. The contrast of the heat from the bath and the biting wind is painful, and Erik is grateful for it.

He makes his way over toward the bath and sits at the edge of the pool, rolling the legs of his trousers up before sinking his feet into the water. The steam has kept the snow from sticking for a good five feet in any direction, but it only offers meager protection against the oncoming winter.

Something’s wrong. Sometime between waking up this morning and an hour or so after his return from walking with Moira this afternoon, Charles saw something or heard something or did something that has upset him deeply. And, uncharacteristically, Charles refuses to speak of it. Even crying, he insisted that nothing was wrong, lying over and over again to Erik’s face while he buried whatever-it-was down deep. 

It’s an immensely frustrating and helpless feeling, to know with such certainty that something is wrong, but to be offered no opportunity to know what that something is. To have no notion of how he might repair it. It makes Erik feel useless as a husband. Worse, it makes him feel unwanted. After the past two months and everything they’ve achieved in them, Charles still doesn’t trust him enough to tell him these things. Not when it really matters. 

Perhaps Charles thinks Erik can’t tell when he’s drawn himself away again, but the contrast between how Charles is now and how he had been is too stark for Erik to ignore. And that … it hurts. Charles has made a stranger of himself, and Erik doesn’t have the first idea how to go about bringing him back.

It could be nothing, Erik tries telling himself. A passing mood. An effect of the pregnancy. But such explanations feel inadequate. Or perhaps they’re only inadequate in the context of Erik’s greater expectations. He has grown accustomed to Charles’ honesty, to looking at the man he married and feeling as if he recognises him. He thought Charles knew by now, that whatever might hurt him, Erik would be willing to fight it at his side. 

The water is too warm; Erik pulls his feet out and pushes himself back up to standing, limping awkwardly round the circumference of the pool toward the ledge, until he is standing at the sheer cliff face, looking over. In the dark, it’s easy to imagine the ground isn’t down there, hundreds of feet below. It’s easy to imagine the drop going off forever, down into the very center of the earth. 

Well, Erik tells himself, it’s only been one day. Charles is pregnant, and no matter how close they may have grown in the past months, there are still thirteen years of age between them. Charles is young, and subject to all the unstable turns of mood that anyone is in their youth. Combined with pregnancy, which Erik knows full well can deteriorate even the most stable of temperaments, perhaps it’s unfair of Erik to judge Charles too harshly for this.

Even so, this doesn’t entirely take the edge off the lingering sense of unease in the pit of his stomach. It swells and roils like nausea when he eventually makes his way back down the stairs to the bedchamber he shares with Charles, surging uncomfortably whenever he looks at his husband, now curled asleep beneath the furs. Charles’ cheeks still have dried tear tracks on them.

Tomorrow, Erik tells himself as he strips back out of his clothes, gingerly stepping around the bed with as little weight put on his ankle as possible. He tries to push the nausea down, but it keeps rising up despite his best efforts. He rests his head on his own pillow, turned toward Charles, watching the back of his head with heavy eyes. Assume nothing, he tells himself. Feel nothing. Wait until tomorrow.

Sleep, when it comes, is thin and marred by unfamiliar, poisonous dreams.

 

~*~

 

When Erik woke that morning, he’d almost believed that everything from the day before had been a dream -- part of the contorted realities that had plagued his mind through the night. Charles was snugged up against Erik’s side the way he always is when Erik wakes up, and grumbled drowsily when Erik dared to shift position, tucking his head further into the curve of Erik’s shoulder and dragging Erik’s arm around his waist, settling again once he was comfortable. But when Erik shifted toward him, waking Charles from his half-doze, and tried to kiss him, the façade broke apart. A subtle change; Erik would have missed it if he weren’t looking for it. The kiss was stale and empty. Erik left soon after, without staying for breakfast.

The sense of unease is back, a constant presence in the bottom of his stomach. He holes himself up in his study and sends for Moira. While he waits, he tries to focus his attention on the reports from the local nobility, but it’s of little use. His thoughts are scattered and unruly; it’s impossible to gather them enough to be of any help.

He’s just about given up on the reports when there’s a soft knock at the door. “Enter,” he says, and Moira steps in, closing the door behind herself. Erik uses his Gift to turn the lock.

“Moira,” Erik says, setting the stack of papers aside and folding his arms across his desk. “Yesterday, you and Charles went out into town, correct?”

“Not entirely correct, sir,” she says, clasping her hands loosely in front of her. “We went outside of town, to the farms. Charles was interested in investigating burning-wine trade options.”

Erik frowns. “Is it entirely appropriate for Charles to be going on such a trek in his condition? What if he’d been injured?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Moira says, “but he wanted to go, and you told me he was permitted to roam as he wished.” 

That’s right, of course he had. But that was before Charles was pregnant, with _his_ child. Erik’s lips thin, but he doesn’t berate her further. “Did anything out of the ordinary happen on this trip? Anything that may have … upset him?”

Her eyebrows lift at the question, and she shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of. He threw up on the way back, but put it down to the pregnancy unsettling his stomach. Otherwise there was nothing of note.”

“Which winery did he tour?”

“We went out to Jónatan Aronsson’s place -- it was really very friendly, sir. They parted with an agreement to try sending some shipments south next year.”

A note of suspicion sparks in the back of Erik’s mind. “Was Magda there?”

“No,” Moira says. “Just Robert and Jónatan. I think Sædís was around somewhere, but we didn’t see her.” It’s obvious from her face that she wants to ask why, but she restrains herself, asking only with her expression.

“Mmm,” Erik makes a noise of acknowledgment. Magda’s family wouldn’t know anything of import, even if Charles had been in their minds. It seems excessive to make a trip out to the Aronsson farm simply to inquire after Charles’ visit. “Does he often get sick to his stomach due to the pregnancy?

“I don’t usually come in in the mornings until he calls for me, so I wouldn’t know. Most pregnancy-related nausea occurs first thing in the mornings, in my experience.” Moira folds her arms behind her back. “Sir, is Charles all right?”

Erik shakes his head. “He’s been acting … strangely, as of late. Please keep an eye on him for me. Let me know if anything seems out of the ordinary.”

“Of course.” Moira bows her head, her long hair swaying over her shoulder in its tight braid. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Thank you, Moira.”

He unlocks the door and she takes her leave. Alone in his study, Erik feels even more at a loss than before. There is no simple explanation for Charles’ behaviour. The sickness from yesterday’s trip may be related, or it may just be the pregnancy, as Charles had claimed. Whatever it is, it’s sensitive enough that Charles is keeping it from him. That, more than anything else, Erik finds disturbing.

Erik spends the rest of that week wondering what it is that has changed things between them, and fighting with himself not to ask. Charles is just as strange and distant as he has been since returning from his trip to the winery, and when Erik touches him, he is just the shell of the man he thought he knew. Their kisses are stale and empty. The discomfort grows in Erik’s gut, twisting and fermenting, until it’s a constant presence, and being alone with Charles no longer makes him feel at ease; it just makes him want to find an excuse to escape. He can’t bring himself to fuck Charles again -- not after the last time. The gulf between them grows wider, and Erik is powerless to narrow it.

With his sprained ankle still restricting his movement, Erik cannot ride out to the outlying towns. He has Janos arrange for a hearing of grievances before the week is out. He doesn’t bother asking Charles to come in person; he just sends a message via Moira requesting his presence. There’s a strange comfort in the formality of it. A distance that makes the ache feel dull.

He spends the morning before the hearing crafting a brace from an old metal helmet, using his Gift to shape it around his ankle and foot, holding his injury steady. It has the added benefit of letting him walk a bit more evenly, using the iron to keep his foot from touching the ground. For getting rid of the crutches, the time spent was well worth it.

Charles is already in the receiving room when Erik arrives, seated on the slightly-shorter chair designated for the Duke’s omega. He rises when Erik enters, as does the rest of the gathering, returning to their seats only when Erik does. Charles is dressed formally in embroidered tunic and the cloak Erik put on him on their wedding day, fastened at his neck with a gold pin; it looks well on him, as does the smile on his face when Erik approaches. He nods at Erik when he reaches the front of the room, and if Erik didn’t know that they had been at odds all week, he would never have been able to tell.

The first grievances are predictable: he stole my goat, she deflowered my daughter. Petty crimes and grudges, easily handled and dismissed. Erik had almost thought that would be the whole of it -- but then they start coming forward: farmers complaining of tensions at the borders, mayors whose towns need to be rebuilt after Shaw’s men have been through, searching for hidden Frjálsmen. Erik orders the necessary assistance be sent out in terms of carpenters and masons, but he makes a point of lending every border town a garrison of troops, as well. If Shaw oversteps his bounds again, he’ll find his men have Erik’s army to contend with.

It’s Charles, however, who leans forward and says to the gathered townspeople, “What do you need to replenish your stores? What are your trades? I can’t imagine they were let alone.”

One of the mayors steps forward, a grey-haired alpha woman, and nods politely before saying, “Geldavík is mostly farmers, so it’s meat, grain, wool, for our part. The soldiers ruined half our stockpile of food and damaged the storehouse such that the wool is spoiling, too.”

Charles makes a sound of understanding. “Then we’ll send food from our own stores to replace it. The wool we cannot replace this winter, but perhaps I can help you find a better price for it next year -- my family is well placed in trade, and that should help cover your losses.”

The mayor gives him a shallow bow, grateful, and retreats. The other mayors convey their losses as well, and Erik gestures for Janos to take note of each request. They may not be able to supply everything from the stocks here at Ironhold, but they can acquire surplus from any untouched fealty-owing towns and farms to lend out. 

When the last of the petitioners have gone, Erik lingers behind, touching the small of Charles’ back and feeling almost hesitant, half-expecting Charles to step away. “You take very naturally to this business,” he says. “Thank you.”

Charles stays close under Erik’s hand, but the smile he gives Erik is one of the shallow, neutral ones he has worn for days. Erik hates them. When Charles really means to smile the corners of his eyes crinkle, and right now his face is smooth. “I’m glad I can help,” he says.

Erik pulls his hand away, and he has to fight to keep his frustration from showing on his face. “I’m sure,” he says stonily; he forgets to take pressure off his foot as he starts to walk away, and has to bite back a hiss of pain, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the back of his chair before he falls.

Charles jerks reflexively towards Erik as if to catch him, eyes alarmed, then halts awkwardly with his hand outstretched, fingers curling in the air between them before he retracts it back to his side. “I didn’t think you were meant to be walking around unassisted yet,” he says slowly, and pulls his cloak -- _Erik’s_ cloak -- closer around his shoulders. “Do you need your crutch?”

“I’m fine,” Erik snaps. And he is. There is iron ore in the stones beneath their feet, just like there is iron in his metal splint. He can’t bring himself to debase himself further in Charles’ eyes, when Charles appears to be thinking so little of him already.

A frown. “All right,” Charles says, folding his arms across his chest and glancing away down the length of the great hall. A moment later his hand lifts again, restless, to clasp the brooch at his throat, gold gleaming between his fingers. Erik can feel the warmth of Charles’ touch against the metal, reflected strangely in his Gift. “Just … don’t hurt yourself.”

Erik attempts a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. He holds his arm out and waits for Charles to take it before starting off down the length of the hall, toward the open double-doors that will lead them back into the keep proper. His ankle is throbbing viciously, but Erik’s able to keep most of that from his expression, he thinks. He can’t help but noticing how Charles’ hand on his elbow, in this formal posture, feels precisely as intimate as any other time he’s touched Charles this past week.

“There was a rider from the capital today,” Erik says. “An alert from Shaw. He expects war at the Svarti border within the year. I must be prepared to ride out with my men at any time.”

Charles’ grip on Erik tightens, squeezing his forearm. “But Svartiland is so far away! Surely we’re too far north for him to call for you.”

“I all but _am_ his army,” Erik points out. “He has the other Dukes’ men, and the kingdom’s standing army, but they are not as strong, or as disciplined. We could be at war with the Island duchies in the Southern seas, and still he would call on the North for aid.”

When Erik glances down at Charles his husband’s gaze is turned down and away, the corners of his mouth pinched and unhappy. “I don’t like it,” Charles says, more genuine emotion in his voice now than there has been in days.

 _Why not?_ Erik wants to say, bitterly. _To you, I might as well not be here already._ “Shall I forward your opinion to the King, then?” he says instead, and even he knows that, as jokes go, it’s half-hearted.

Charles huffs, and leans into Erik’s arm a little, his body a warm press against Erik’s side. “I understand that it’s your duty to go if he calls. But...” He pauses, steps slowing as they reach the great doors, halting on the threshold. “You could be killed.” His voice is quiet.

Erik glances at Charles, a bit taken aback. The way Charles has been acting lately, Erik hadn’t expected him to react much at all to the news. Or perhaps that’s being uncharitable; Charles has to concern himself with whether his baby’s father will be around, after all. “I’ve been in plenty of wars,” he says, gentling his tone slightly. “I haven’t been killed yet.”

“What if it starts before the baby comes?” Charles asks, then shakes his head. “Stupid question. You’ll go.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Erik says, though the idea is one that has been twisting at him ever since he heard the news. Charles has seven more months to go. That’s the better half of a year; Erik could easily be called away by then. “If Shaw does send a call to arms before the birth, I’ll do everything possible to delay him. There will be many broken bridges and missing men and flooded roads. I promise.”

Charles shakes his head again. He’s still not meeting Erik’s eyes, his chin tipped down so that Erik has a better view of the top of his head than of his expression. “We can’t afford to antagonise the King. You’d have to go. I would -- I’d be fine.”

“Antagonising the King is a Northern pastime,” Erik says, nudging Charles with his shoulder to get him walking again, if a bit slower than before. “You’re strong, but there’s no reason you have to go through that alone.”

They turn left into the corridor, heading towards the west wing of the castle, though with no particular destination; at this time of day the halls are almost empty, most of the servants being busy preparing for dinner.

“It’s fine,” Charles says. “I knew who you were when I married you.”

There’s something off about that, or perhaps just about the way Charles says it, but Erik can’t quite put his finger on it. Frustrating, when he’s come to pride himself on his ability to read people’s faces as easily as if they’d written their thoughts across their foreheads. 

He wants, again, to ask Charles what’s wrong, but it’s getting increasingly difficult to hear Charles lie.

“You knew who _I_ was, or you knew who the Iron Duke was? Because I can tell you they are not the same thing.” It comes out harder than Erik meant it to, but he’s not feeling particularly inclined to soften the blow.

“Perception is reality,” Charles replies. “The Iron Duke can’t be seen to be holding back from a fight for his omega. You have a reputation to uphold.”

“Perception is _not_ reality. What a foolish thing to say.” Erik can’t help it; it’s obvious Charles wants him gone. From him, even if not from his child. He pushes down the part of himself that feels raw and wounded, feeding off his anger instead.

But all Charles says is, “I’m sure you’re right,” and ducks his head further; his fingers tighten on Erik’s arm before they loosen, almost slipping free.

“I’m afraid I have pressing business with Logan,” Erik says, halting them in the middle of the hall and stepping away from Charles, his chest tight and hot; he can feel his power all but sparking in his fingertips, desperate to latch on to the nearest metal thing and tear it down to its basest parts. He forces himself to curl his fingers into fists, keeping his Gift restrained, if only temporarily. Erik bows, in his very best imitation of Charles’ own Southern etiquette. “Good evening.”

Charles -- pauses, then bows in return, the motion beautifully precise and proper. “...Good evening.”

Erik takes the first exit he finds, out to the courtyard, unable to stand being near Charles -- desperate to get away from Charles’ eyes on him, from Charles’ scent. It’s black as pitch, but Erik doesn’t need to see. He can feel the metal of Charles’ wedding ring as he turns the corner at the end of the hall, moving out of earshot. And he can feel the metal of the balcony overhead as he tears it down to the ground in a tangled, half-molten heap.

That evening his ankle is swollen and inflamed again, and Erik has to spend the majority of the next morning in bed, resting it.

 

~*~

 

A week later, when his ankle can reliably stand his weight, Erik clears his morning schedule, dresses in many layers, and heads for the narrow path between the mountains. The storm which had prevented earlier passage up to the glacier is cleared, now, though Erik still needs to strap on snowshoes in places where the snowdrifts have gotten too deep. Once he’s up on the ice, though, the sun is high in the sky and the air is crisp and clean; the entire world almost manages to feel empty, except for the crunch of Erik’s crampons and the trickle of meltwater in the glacial streams.

Since the airing of public grievances, Erik and Charles have been steadfastly formal in each other’s presence. For Charles it seems to come naturally as breathing; for Erik, it’s a constant, bitter torsion of every shallow, navel-gazing alpha he encountered during his years in the capital, thrown in Charles’ face in the hope of sparking any kind of reaction from him at all.

Thus far, his efforts have failed. Charles’ body may as well be empty, for that’s as much of him as is present at Erik’s side these days. With no other outlet, Erik’s anger turns inward, clawing apart memories of every interaction, grasping for any possible reason behind Charles’ sudden aloofness. He fails in this too, but only inasmuch as suddenly, now, everything he’s ever said or done feels like some kind of veiled insult. He doubts his own good intentions. He doubts his own feelings for Charles. And in the end, he cannot blame Charles for loathing him. 

He can’t sleep much at this point; what rest he does get is thin and uneasy. He tries to sooth himself with thoughts of the baby growing in Charles’ belly, but even that feels abstract and unreal. And in the morning, he always wakes with Charles curled around his back like a comma, clinging to Erik with warm hands before daylight reaches deeply enough into the room that Charles remembers where he is, and who he’s with.

It would be easier to stop thinking about it if he could just mute everything. To cut his anger and pain off as close to the source as he can. Only cutting off his anger with Charles means cutting off his anger with Shaw, and that, Erik can never allow.

So he stays angry, a low-level smoulder of rage beneath his breastbone that nothing quite manages to extinguish, a flame that is fueled by itself and thus will never go out. In his private study, very little metal has gone untouched. His attempts to fix a twisted poker or a torqued pen nib only ever seem to fall short of perfection, which enrages him even more.

It infuriates him, that he cannot pinpoint the exact moment when Charles looked at him, and decided to step away. Distracting Erik while he neatly snipped the ties they’d woven between themselves. Erik has assumed too much, perhaps, in their short time together -- he asked for Charles’ true self, and Charles had consented. Perhaps it was naïve, to think he could keep him. Perhaps it was self-deluding, to think himself ever worthy of love.

At least on the glacier, he does not have to see Charles, or hear him, or witness evidence of his existence. He can almost pretend it is as if he never even met him -- though even pretense is miserable, because it seems to Erik that his life before Charles was somehow less than it was after Charles arrived. And then when he did -- the brightest shine in his life was that which Charles brought to him. Until Charles took it away again.

It feels more distant up here, though, where he’s far enough away from Charles that he doesn’t have to feel just a little bit wrecked every time Charles looks at him with guarded eyes. Here, everything has an order and a purpose. Erik knows why things are the way they are, and he knows his use in their context. It’s simpler.

One of the _strið_ sect, a man Erik doesn’t recognise, meets him near the edge of the glacier and walks with him into the ice caves. Normally he would try to make conversation, mention Magda, perhaps, as this man’s sister in arms, but today his throat feels dry and he can’t muster up the words to speak them. It’s probably for the best, anyway; the man seems edgy and uncomfortable. It will make his task easier if Erik doesn’t require him to worry about how he presents himself through speech as well as form.

“Erik.” The kennari is waiting for him in one of the deeper caverns, his skin glowing blue in the reflection of the candlelight on the ice, lit around the floor of the cave, strange shadows cast off the walls. He grasps Erik’s hands in his own, ancient skin paper-thin to the touch, and squeezes. “It’s good that you have come. Andvari has been waiting for you.”

Erik frowns. “Andvari?”

At this the kennari smiles, wryly amused. “You met Andvari at your _drekisamþykki._ I should have thought you would remember.”

At the dragon blessing -- “Andvari is the dragon?” Erik asks, and feels his stomach drop at the memory of black scales gleaming against pale ice, claws as long as swords and enormous blue eyes, each larger than his head, unblinking and slit-pupiled like a snake’s.

The kennari nods, still smiling.

 _Fuck,_ Erik thinks. “Then we shouldn’t keep -- him? her? -- waiting,” he says, throat tight, and when the old man steps back, beckoning with one hand, Erik swallows his fear and follows.

The caves are twisted and smooth inside, winding through the natural faults in the ice; the deeper in they go the wider the path becomes, until it is large enough to fit many humans walking side by side. Here, the floors are marked with long gouges every few metres, and long sweeping markings, as if from a long, thick tail.

Clearly the cave system is far more complex than Erik had ever realised -- they go nowhere near the pool where he bathed before the wedding, and where he first saw the dragon. Instead the kennari leads him deeper under the glacier, through large and small caves, down through the winding, slippery passages in the ice, delving deeper into the glacier. The icy walls are less smooth here; these tunnels were not made by water. He and the kennari both hold onto a cord that’s been nailed into the wall and use it for balance. The tunnel is perfectly round, the floor not flattened by footfalls, and it’s steadily descending. If he slipped here, it would cause more than a few broken bones.

At last they reach an immense, hollow cavern, lit only by one solitary oil lamp. The far reaches of the cavern as black as winter; there’s no telling how far it goes, or what is hiding there.

“Where -- ?” Erik starts, turning to the kennari, but it’s then that he hears the echoing whisper of something moving in the darkness.

The first he sees of the dragon is the bright black of its hide shining like tar in the dim edge of the shadows, uncoiling; then its eyes like icebergs in a dark sea, glowing; and then Andvari, the dragon, comes out into the light.

Erik had forgotten, in the three months since his wedding, just how _big_ the creature is.

 _Fair,_ a voice says in his head as Andvari tilts its head to one side, eyes fixed on Erik. The dragon circles towards his left as more and more of it emerges, a rumble sounding in its chest. _I forget often how small humans are._

The dragon can _talk_.

Its voice -- _echoes_ , as though from a distance, but Erik has the sense that the dragon is holding back, the deep basso sound in his head muffled almost, restrained.

“You were waiting for me?” Erik asks, forcing steel into his spine.

 _Indeed,_ Andvari says. The dragon has circled halfway around the lit area of the cavern now, its serpentine body curling around the two humans as its head comes back towards where the tip of its tail is just emerging. Once it has made the full circle the dragon settles there, focusing on Erik with its left eye, head resting on the ice.

It’s difficult not to be conscious that they are now entirely trapped by an enormous creature that could kill them without even having to move. Tense, though he tries not to show it, Erik waits, but Andvari does not continue, so eventually he says, “Why?”

A snort. _You think loudly,_ kenig _. I heard your approach from Ironhold._

There’s nothing else for it, Erik thinks. “I thought you didn’t see people who were not marked as your equals.” _And yet here I am_. That part goes unspoken.

 _And yet you are the only human dragons may use to regain the sky,_ Andvari says, the words carrying with them a sensation of wind on wings, eggshell blue all around and the land far below, miniscule and irrelevant. _It is impractical. Illogical, to keep from speaking to one who is not our equal simply for the sake of tradition. And we are tired of ice._

Erik presses his lips into a thin smile. He wishes he could fully engage with this moment -- he feels, surely, he ought to be excited that the dragons have let him approach -- but his emotions are dampened under the weight of the past fortnight. Come to it, he’s not sure he remembers why, exactly, he ought to be excited in the first place. 

“We both need the same things in order to achieve our goals,” he says -- though of this, of course, the dragon is well aware. “I came up the glacier today to tell the kennari of two things. My husband is pregnant with our child, and I may soon be called off South to war.”

The rumble this time is deeper, longer, shaking the ice beneath his feet until Erik has to brace himself to stay upright. _The first is good. The second, not so. It adds nothing of value to the Frjálsmen or the dragons. It is not good to leave the egg before it is hatched, or to fight for the argument of your enemy._

“I know,” Erik says, managing to keep his tone respectful despite the urge to lash out at the mere implication that he might harbour sympathies for Shaw. “But if Shaw calls me to war before the child is grown past its infancy, I cannot risk betraying my true intentions. Not before I know I have an heir, and that the dragons are prepared to raze the South at my side.”

 _Consider,_ says Andvari, with a slow, measured blink of its eyelid, like punctuation, _that dragons will stand by you when justice is to be done. But justice only. Ensure you know the difference._

“Is it not justice, to wish to see a kingdom freed from a man who would have half its inhabitants killed?”

 _It is justice to free a kingdom. To raze one is another matter,_ Andvari says, and lifts its great head, looking down at Erik before twisting its neck to look back into the darkness behind it. _Consider that intent is as important as deed when one deals with telepaths._

Erik nods, not quite sure what to say in response to that. He isn’t sure he can parse the difference between justice and revenge -- not in a way that will satisfy Andvari, anyway. Revenge against Shaw carries justice along with it. Justice has the sweet taste of revenge. He cannot pretend he won’t take a bitter pleasure in seeing Shaw die. 

Andvari turns its attention back to Erik, and a feeling of cool assessment runs over Erik’s mind, dispassionate and starkly inhuman. _All blessings on your egg,_ Andvari says, and leans forward to nudge its snout against Erik’s forehead, the gentlest of touches, carefully measured not to hurt him. _And to your mate. Most unusual, to feel so strong a mind in a human._

At that, the dragon rises to its feet, a sleek mountain of scales rippling over muscle as it turns and pads back towards the darkness, its mind receding from Erik’s, clearly finished with the conversation. Erik’s not surprised, that the dragons have taken interest in Charles -- both as Erik’s omega and as another telepath. They would have read his mind to ensure he posed no threat to their long-term plans, if nothing else. But that they mention it at all, to Erik’s face, leaves him feeling strangely adrift.

“There now,” the kennari says, and Erik almost starts; he’d forgotten the old man was standing there behind him, watching this whole time. Clearly he was not privy to the dragon’s side of the discussion. “You haven’t been smote with fire, so I take it the conversation went well?”

The kennari is smiling, but Erik’s chest feels hollow. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Most unusual, to speak with Andvari when you have not been chosen,” the kennari continues, unknowingly echoing Andvari’s parting words as he strokes his fingers over his white beard. “You know Andvari is the eldest of the remaining dragons, of course. Perhaps the eldest being in the world, for I know of no other creature as long-lived. Did you achieve what you wanted?”

“I told them what I came to tell them,” Erik says, somewhat elusively. Andvari’s other words, he suspects, were meant for him alone. He taps his temple twice. “I expect they’ve passed word along to you now, as well?”

The kennari simply nods, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “Congratulations, Erik. Very welcome news indeed.”

“I will bring the child here as soon after the birth as possible, to see the dragons,” Erik says. Assuming he’s here. Assuming he’s not already been pulled away to fight Shaw’s war for him.

The kennari draws one hand out and places it upon Erik’s shoulder in a strange, almost paternal gesture. “I will pray your child is born omega, or female,” he says.

Erik forces another smile. “Thank you.” 

They begin the slow climb back up the tunnel, winding through the ice until they are in the uppermost cavern once more. The sun is still bright when Erik steps back out onto the glacier and heads back toward Ironhold, though the clouds are lit gold now. Barely past midday, and night will fall soon. Eventually the sun will not rise at all, and the North will wait under the black embrace of winter, suffocating in the dark and the cold.

He can’t help but think of the dragons caught beneath the ice, so far from the open air and the sky, waiting on him to set them free.

 

~*~

 

Erik has been avoiding overheating his injury for the past few days since his trip to the glacier caused it to reinflame; he tries to keep the swelling down by keeping his ankle cool and icing it regularly, but he doubts that another week of sponge baths is going to help his situation with Charles. (He doubts much of anything is going to help his situation with Charles, but that’s beside the point.) Hank had suggested the geothermal baths might help after the initial damage had had time to settle, a fact which Erik double-checks in one of the physiker’s books in his library before really accepting -- and so he heads down to the lowest levels of the keep, to the underground baths.

He strips in the outer cell, folding his clothes and placing them atop a stone bench next to a linen bath towel. Even out there, his lungs are filled with steam from the pools; winter or summer, the water’s temperature never changes. Over time it’s caused moss to flourish in the cracks between the stones; after a while, the servants stopped trying to clip back the growth. Erik likes it better this way, anyway: leaves hanging from overhead, greenness underfoot.

Naked, Erik sits and pulls his ankle up to rest on his other thigh, examining his injury. The skin is flushed and stretched around the fluid that has filled his ankle and foot, though the bruises that initially marred his flesh have faded by now. It still hurts when he presses down with his fingers, though not as badly as before. 

Even so, when he stands and walks in to the main bath chamber, he’s limping slightly. He’s so used to being alone in these baths, this time of night, that he jerks to a halt when he sees Charles stood nude and waist-deep in the milky water, his bare back to Erik as he scrubs at his skin with the sweet sand that all the Northerners use. He’s sleek and gleaming in the dim light of the grotto, hair plastered darkly to his head and curling across pale skin, and utterly unaware of Erik’s presence. It feels as though Erik has stumbled on Charles out in some underground oasis in the wilderness, the rough-cut walls and ceiling overhead closing them in and making it cave-like, hazy with heat.

Erik turns to leave, but he only makes it a few steps before his ankle gives out and he trips forward, making a sharp, pained sound.

A loud splash, and then Charles’ voice, cursing. “Fuck -- Gods, you scared me!” There’s a silent pause as Erik breathes in and out against the throbbing agony of his ankle before Charles says, “Do you need any help?”

“I’m fine,” Erik says through gritted teeth, grabbing onto a vined pillar and forcing himself to stand straight once more before he turns around, facing Charles. “I stepped the wrong way, that’s all.” He can tell the difference, he thinks grimly, between real concern and false. 

A longer pause, then, as Charles looks at him, measuring, the line of his mouth soft. “Okay,” and Charles glances around them at the baths, fingers dropping to trail in the water. “I can go, if you want.”

Erik looks at him -- really looks at him, while Charles’ gaze is elsewhere, taking in the pink flush of the heat on his pale skin and the visible thickening at Charles’ waist, starting to hint at an outward curve. It’s almost painful to see him naked now, beautiful and pregnant with Erik’s baby growing inside of him, and utterly untouchable. 

“No,” Erik says. “It’s fine.”

He has to live with Charles. He can damn well bathe with him. 

Erik moves toward the pool, taking the steps down into the steaming water. He claims the stone bench farthest from Charles, sitting down and letting his hurt ankle float with his other foot flat on the bath floor. Whether this is good for his ankle or not, Erik can’t deny that he’s missed baths. The water feels protective, insulating. Or it would, if he wasn’t keenly aware of Charles’ presence, tugging at the same old raw wound inside his chest. He pushes the feeling aside and tries to ignore it, focusing instead on the slippery feel of his own thighs beneath his palms and the steam curling against his skin.

The heat must lull him into a slight doze, eyes closed and head tipped back against the grotto wall, because Erik doesn’t feel the movement of the water, doesn’t notice even a splash to warn him before Charles says quietly, from not two feet away, “Erik?”

He blinks his eyes open and turns his head toward the sound. Charles is sitting on the bench next to him, now, hair dripping water onto his shoulders. “Hmm?”

Charles’ expression is tentative, his teeth biting his lower lip, but there’s only a momentary pause before Charles leans forward and presses his open mouth to Erik’s with a desperate little sound in his throat that Erik can feel thrumming through the awkward kiss. It’s too much, too similar to what Erik wants and can’t have. The sudden, sharp pain that lances through him is enough to make his breath catch in the back of his throat as he turns his head quickly away, forcing Charles’ mouth to glance off to his cheek instead, shutting his eyes. Shame burns in his gut.

“Oh,” Charles says, and he has the temerity to sound hurt.

Erik tries to breathe steadily, but his chest is tight. He can’t get enough air. Pathetic, he thinks, how easily he has become Charles’ plaything. Stripped bare and vulnerable. If his mind were his own to give, he’d let Charles peel it open and crack it like an overripe melon. He has no more use for his own foolishness.

“I -- sorry.” There’s a sound of water as Charles shifts, but he doesn’t move away, his side still warm against Erik’s, skin on skin. “I just -- I just wanted. To.”

“To what?” Erik can’t quite bring himself to leave Charles floundering. He opens his eyes again, but keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling.

“To -- ” Charles breaks off, and his voice is embarrassed when he continues. “I just wanted -- I’m so -- fuck, Erik. I just -- I really want to have sex all the time right now, my body is just -- and we haven’t, for a while, and I wanted…. I should have said, first. Sorry. I can go.” 

Erik lets out a soft, barely audible breath. When he looks at Charles, Charles’ cheeks are vibrant red, the flush extending to the roots of his hair. He doesn’t want to have sex with Charles. The physical effort alone would be exhausting, and these days Erik finds it difficult enough getting out of bed in the morning. His limbs feel heavy. It’s one thing to make it through military practice, when he has a set of defined goals and he can lock his thoughts away somewhere he can’t access them. This … this would be different. It’s not his ducal obligation to fuck Charles, not anymore. 

But obligation or not, Charles is still beautiful. Erik still -- _feels_ things for him. Somehow, even after everything that’s happened, that has not changed. 

“No,” Erik says at last, ignoring the ache beneath his breastbone. “No. It’s fine. We … can. If you want.”

“Please,” Charles says, some indefinable look on his face before he leans in again, slower this time, to press his mouth to Erik’s, tentatively, and it might be wishful thinking to believe that the expression in Charles’ eyes before he closes them is almost beseeching.

Erik won’t deny that he’s missed this: Charles’ lips, the feel of his skin against Erik’s. He can almost believe it’s the way it used to be, if he doesn’t dwell too long on it. Charles feels closer than he has in a long time. If only Erik could pretend nothing has changed. If only this were real, and not mundane physical desire, but love as well.

When Erik doesn’t respond to the kiss Charles makes a frustrated sound, pulling back for a moment before returning, lips brushing the corner of Erik’s mouth this time as Charles’ forehead leans against Erik’s, their faces close enough to mingle their breath, only barely warmer than the steam. “Please?” Charles’ voice is a whisper, now, and he sags against Erik’s side, head slipping down to Erik’s shoulder.

Erik takes in a slow, shaky breath, and turns toward Charles, touching just his fingertips to Charles’ waist, half-expecting Charles to pull away from the touch. But he doesn’t. Erik tilts his head down and presses a light kiss to Charles’ neck, and then a second, lower, near his collarbone. 

Charles moans, neck arching towards Erik’s lips, inviting; when Erik inhales, under the sweet sand he can smell Charles, his familiar rich scent strongest at his pulse points. Charles lifts his hand to Erik’s opposite shoulder, curling his fingers around the muscle there as he sits up, meeting Erik’s gaze. “Hi,” Charles murmurs.

Erik wants to smile, for him, but he can’t quite manage it. He lifts a hand out of the pool to tuck one wet lock of hair from where it was plastered against Charles’ cheek back behind Charles’ ear and then kisses him again, a bit more boldly this time, his hand on Charles’ waist flattening out to tug Charles’ body closer to his.

In the mineral-saturated water, the movement is easy, weightless; Charles floats into Erik’s arms as he kisses back, his hand curling up around the nape of Erik’s neck. This close it’s easy to feel where Charles has thickened at his middle, the usual softness of his belly now firm and taut. Erik can feel, too, the rapid beat of Charles’ breath, and the firm pressure of his cock, hardening now against Erik’s thigh, invisible under the surface of the milky water. 

Erik wraps his arm around Charles’ waist and pulls him over into his lap, Charles’ thighs straddling Erik’s hips, his own cock slowly starting to stiffen despite the heaviness in his heart. Charles’ body is soft and familiar. Erik’s hands have his form memorised; he still knows where and how to touch him to make Charles keen. He still knows what Charles likes.

Charles must still remember what Erik likes, too; once settled Charles rocks forward in Erik’s lap, rubbing his cock against Erik’s stomach and his ass over Erik’s growing erection, his fingers curling in the hair at Erik’s nape and tugging just a little as Charles pants into their kiss, pulling back finally, open-mouthed and swollen-lipped. “I hope no one comes in,” he says. 

“Not at this time of night,” Erik says, hands smoothing down over the curve of Charles’ ass, grinding him down against his cock. “If they do, I’m sure they’ll leave.” No one in the castle wants to be on the wrong side of Erik’s temper, after all.

He can almost pretend this is the Charles from a month ago, the one who seemed to do more than just tolerate him. Just for now -- just for tonight, he wants to believe that nothing’s changed. That Charles wants _him_ and not just his body. 

Charles’ head tips back, eyes closing again as he rocks against Erik, biting his lower lip for a moment before he says, “Gods, this feels -- it must be the pregnancy, but the past two weeks I’ve been going out of my mind just … _wanting_. Could you…?” He trails off, flushing scarlet, but drops his hand to cover Erik’s on his ass, tugging it downward until Erik’s fingertips are brushing his hole. “Please.”

Erik only hesitates for a second before he’s pushing two fingers into Charles’ body, their passage eased by the slick Charles is already producing, burying them up to his knuckles in tight heat. Charles whines high in his throat, clenching around the penetration, his lips parting to let out another desperate sound before he reaches between his own legs to tug Erik’s cock up and through, curling his palm around the shaft and dragging it up toward the thick head.

Erik presses his fingertips against Charles’ inner walls, seeking until he finds the spongy flesh above Charles’ prostate. Nothing can quite dampen the thrill of satisfaction Erik feels when Charles cries out. Erik massages the pad of his thumb against Charles’ perineum and thrusts his hips upward slightly into Charles’ grasp, urging for more friction.

Charles is making these little gasping noises as Erik rubs and pushes against his prostate from outside and in, eyes closed and squirming on Erik’s hand, but he’s still coordinated enough to tighten his grip and start to stroke Erik’s cock, pulling up and down it in time with Erik’s fingers inside him. After a minute Charles shifts his hips, and then his cock is nestled in his hand along with Erik’s, stroking both together. “Gods, Erik, please…!”

Erik draws his fingers nearly out of Charles’ hole and then pushes in again, taking up a firm thrusting rhythm, angling to hit Charles’ prostate each time. The feel of Charles’ hard cock rubbing against his is intensely arousing. Sweat beads on Erik’s brow, mingling with the steam from the bath. His pulse races and he closes his eyes, trying to force himself to believe this is real, trying desperately to forget about everything except Charles’ body and the sound of his voice.

The sounds Charles is making escalate sharply, and his hand tightens as he clenches and squeezes around Erik’s fingers, the slick velvet grip of his ass pulsing; Charles comes trembling in Erik’s lap, crying out, his thighs tight around Erik’s hips and his chest heaving as he spurts come over Erik’s stomach and cock. Erik’s eyes open just in time to see Charles’ mouth making that beautiful ‘o’ shape of surprise he always seems to wear during orgasm. (Every time -- _every_ time Charles makes that face -- Erik can’t help but think of Charles’ lips around his cock.)

It’s barely been five minutes and Charles is already finished, gasping and spent in Erik’s lap, his hole still gripping around Erik’s fingers inside him. Erik can’t help it; a second later he’s coming as well, the force of his own orgasm taking him by surprise. He pulls his fingers out of Charles’ ass slowly, breathless and dizzy, intoxicated by Charles’ climax more than his own. It’s as though Erik withdrawing releases something in Charles; his body sags against Erik’s, almost collapsing forward until his face is nestled in the crook of Erik’s shoulder, his breath hot on Erik’s throat and his hands lax.

Erik’s forgotten entirely about his injured ankle; the only thing that matters is Charles in his arms and the scent of his satiety, the dull throb of hurt in Erik’s bones that never quite goes away. He wants to hold onto Charles like this forever. He wants to push him away. He wants … he wants to do it all over again. Be a better husband. Be whatever it is Charles wants him to be. But he can’t. 

“Just…” Charles murmurs against Erik’s skin, and he sounds drowsy, like he’s falling asleep there. “Love me a little, okay? Just for a while.”

Erik inhales and the breath catches in the back of his throat, making a strange, choked sound. He can’t speak. Not to tell Charles that he loves him. That he never stopped loving him. Not even to ask why Charles would want Erik’s love when he’s already thrown it away.

He dips his head and presses his brow to the crook of Charles’ neck, eyes clenched shut and his hands curling into fists to keep himself from clinging to Charles too desperately. He’s never wanted so badly to stop feeling. 

Charles’ breaths are coming soft and steady now; he’s asleep, somehow, here in Erik’s arms. Erik should wake him. Should set him aside and go up to their rooms alone. But he holds onto him anyway, one hand smoothing up and down Charles’ spine as if to lull him deeper into sleep. When one of the servants comes in from the far side of the grotto, towel slung over one shoulder, Erik bares his teeth and growls until the man scuttles away, frightened; but Charles sleeps on. If this is all Erik will have of Charles, then he wants it. He covets it, and as long as Charles will let him have it, no one can claim it from him.

~*~


	9. Nine

_Charles_

 

Charles starts to show around the time that winter tightens its grip on Ironhold, in the month before midwinter, four months into his pregnancy. It’s a gradual change; at first he just feels fat, as though he’s been overindulgent at dinner a few too many times, but soon enough his belly takes on a true, if gentle, curve, pressing against the laces of his breeches and threatening the need for larger clothes. Nobody mentions it to him directly, but he can hear the attention it garners in the thoughts of everyone in the castle, the future of the North growing inside of him.

Outside everything is white with snow and ice, the trees stark black lightning bolts against the grey skies that bring only more snow, falling in heavy blankets across the wild and frozen northlands. The animals are all asleep in their dens, waiting for spring, and Charles himself has taken to curling up beside the fire in the little sitting room he has claimed for himself, the comfiest armchair in the castle pulled up close to the grate and a woollen blanket draped over his legs. Not even the heated water from the hot spring that runs through the castle walls can keep the stone of Ironhold from taking on the chill of the outside world.

Moira is sitting in the chair opposite, her hands busy with a pile of soft white fox furs that she is lining with southern silks for the baby. Unlike Charles, she is a very talented sewer. He watches her fingers as they dart the sharp needle back and forth through the leather and silk, covering over the rougher inner surface with tiny stitches. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Charles says honestly, letting his neglected book droop into his lap and fold closed around his thumb. His own hands are covered in little puncture marks like red freckles. “I think I’ve proved to myself that I’ve no talent for this sort of thing.”

“There are plenty of people here in the castle or down in the town who could make baby clothes for you,” Moira says, without looking up from her work, but she smiles anyway, pleased. “I’m happy to do it. It’s been a while since I last had the reason to. Just because you’re omega doesn’t make you a wonderful seamstress, whatever the South seems to expect.”

Charles laughs. “Ably illustrated by this poor piece of linen.” His own attempt at a gown for the baby is piled on the floor, speckled with the results of his punctures.

“Winter up here is a good time to learn new crafts,” Moira says, tying off her thread, and lifts the little blanket to bite through the woollen thread, close to the fur. “Everyone is more or less stuck indoors together for three months, so having something else to focus on gets to be very important.”

“I suppose it would be.” It’s difficult not to think, then, as always, of Erik.

It’s impossible to avoid him now that the castle is more or less shut in for the winter, and even harder for Charles not to let himself fall into a false sense of comfort, allowing himself to forget what he found out from Magda’s mind two months before. Everything in his body is urging him to stay close to his alpha, and the long, dark days, lit only by a few briefly snatched hours of sunlight -- when the sky is not too overshadowed by snow clouds to let it through -- make him drowsy and lethargic, more inclined to losing time in daydreams and half-dozes than to staying vigilant and distant from Erik.

Erik, who looks at Charles like he’s been wounded; who only touches him when Charles is desperate enough for human contact to ask for it outright. Who pretends so well that he never said those things that Charles might almost believe him if he hadn’t seen it for himself.

Perhaps Charles should learn a new craft, at that.

“In any case, we’re effectively cut off from the outside world until the worst of the winter is over,” Moira says, running her hands over the blanket to check the seams for any loose threads or puckers. “You must be pleased, to know the Duke will be staying away from the war in the South for at least the next few months.”

“Mmm,” Charles says, with a clenching feeling in his stomach, and ignores the knowing look that Moira gives him, glancing up over her work with a burst of _whatever did happen there_ that she always gets when she thinks about his marriage to Erik.

He gets up from his chair and wanders over to the shuttered window, easing it open just enough to let a chill wind in to pluck at his clothes and hair and to look outside at the white world, the courtyard below peppered with footprints that are already being filled in where people have had no choice but to go outside. There are icicles hanging from the ramparts, and the catapults stand unslung and lonely on the forward wall, their ropes packed away for the winter where they won’t rot in the constant damp.

“You’ll catch a cold like that,” Moira says from behind him, concern pricking in her mind, and Charles, reassured of his own total isolation from everything outside of Erik’s domain, obliges her, closing the window and returning to the warmth of the hearth.

It’s difficult, of course, to call it ‘night’ when he goes back to their rooms to sleep, since the sun lies under the horizon for twenty hours of the day; the Northerners seem to know when is time to rise, and to lay down, without thinking about it, but Charles has yet to find his own rhythm. He’s so often sleepy now that it seems to make little difference, so he goes upstairs when he is tired that evening, letting himself into the suite he shares with Erik and covering a yawn with the back of his hand.

Erik isn’t there, of course. Erik prefers to wait until he thinks Charles will be asleep before coming to bed, and to leave before Charles wakes up. It would be insulting if it didn’t make things so much easier for Charles, too. But … if Erik was there, then … well. The pregnancy has yet to stop making Charles feel desperately sex-hungry, an itch burning under his skin that never quite gets put out. Today it’s worse, enough that he finds himself wishing Erik would come in early.

Charles isn’t proud of himself for still needing his husband for something, for needing sex, but he’s more or less swallowed his pride enough now to admit that he does. He goes to sleep unsatisfied, his own hand insufficient to the task.

He wakes up later when the bed shifts under him, a new weight climbing in under the furs and jostling the mattress. It’s dark, but Charles can recognise Erik’s breathing, his scent, the chill rolling off his skin. Erik always walks at night before coming to bed. He looks out over the countryside in the moonlight and checks that all is well, possessive and spoiling for a fight after spending so long cooped up, first by his ankle and then by the winter. When he slips under the covers he brings the night air with him, seeping out into the warm space Charles has made.

“Cold,” Charles says drowsily, shivering but otherwise staying curled on his side, facing the centre of the bed and the sound of Erik breathing. The flicker of arousal that’s been banked inside of him flares into life again, a warm feeling building in his groin.

Erik makes a mumbled sound that could be words or could be nothing more than a simple sound of acknowledgment, the bed shifting again as Erik stretches his long legs out toward the foot of the mattress, the same way he always does before going to sleep. His back is to Charles, but that’s okay. It makes it easier for Charles to steel himself to shiver again, breath shaking as he exhales, and shuffle closer in the bed, curling up against Erik’s broad back and slipping his arm around Erik’s waist.

Erik goes unnaturally still next to him, but at least he doesn’t try and push Charles away. He doesn’t do much of anything else either, though. Even when Charles turns his head so he can rest his cheek between Erik’s shoulder blades, Erik only sighs, not moving to reciprocate at all.

The thing is -- the thing is, Charles can’t blame him, not really, for pulling away from Charles when Charles retreated first, for stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Charles’ overtures after Charles has turned him away time after time when Erik has tried to ask what changed. It is frustrating, though, when it means he has to work to get what Erik used to give freely, enthusiastically.

Accepting that Erik isn’t going to take a subtle hint tonight, Charles lets out a breath and releases his hold, rolling onto his back and staring up at the distant ceiling, starting to come clearer now as his eyes adjust to the near-blackness of their bedroom. Then he pushes his sleeping trousers down his legs, kicking them off under the covers, and raises his knees so he can plant his feet flat on the mattress, tenting the furs over him as he slips his hands down to stroke himself.

Charles feels as though he is almost always wet and ready these days, his underclothes damp with it, and so it’s easy to slip two fingers inside of himself as his other hand pulls on his cock, to bite his lower lip and let out a low moan into the dark.

He glances over at Erik, trying to gauge his reaction. Erik hasn’t moved, but Charles can tell he’s listening intently just from the way he hasn’t relaxed even though Charles isn’t touching him anymore, his spine a stiff straight line. Charles could just ask, but the coarseness of having to outright request for his husband to fuck him every night palled extremely quickly.

So instead he works his fingers deeper inside of himself and starts to thrust them gently, teasing himself and knowing that the thick wet sound of it is audible in the quiet bedroom, the smell of it. He teases himself the way he likes best, and waits, the heat in his belly spreading all through his body as he feels Erik stir beside him.

At last Erik turns to face him, pushing himself up onto one elbow, and in the dark Charles can see the glitter of his eyes, watching him. Even so, it’s several long, interminable seconds before Erik touches him, bending his head to kiss Charles gently, sweetly, hands moving to take over.

Erik fucks Charles that night like he loves him, alone together in the dark like two survivors of a shipwreck at sea. But the whole time he doesn’t make a sound.

 

 

~*~

 

The winter goes slowly, muffled by snow.

 

 

~*~

 

By the fifth month of Charles’ pregnancy he is round-bellied and restless, unable to stay anywhere for very long without getting to his feet and finding somewhere else to be; although Moira is very patient with his wandering he can feel that even she is reaching the end of her tolerance, only just repressing a sigh whenever Charles rises from his chair. He’s sick of his belly twinging and shifting, of swaddling himself in blankets and pillows, but being too cold without them; sick of feeling off-balance and swollen, of finding himself in the kitchen every two hours and of being indulged by the kitchen staff who seem to find it endearing. Ironhold, which once seemed so big he could lose himself in its corridors at any turn, now feels as small and as confining as a snuff box, everywhere he looks another wall hemming him in.

Doubtless the kitchen staff -- and Moira -- would disapprove, but one day when the skies are clear overhead and the courtyard has been swept clear of snow Charles wraps himself up in his bear fur coat and slips out of doors after Erik has left for the morning and before Moira has come in. Even his thick leather boots are not quite enough to keep him from feeling the chill seeping up from the frozen stones.

The air is fresh and cold, and Charles inhales deeply the moment he steps outside, taking a great lungful of it and letting it out again, his hands tucked deep into his opposite sleeves and clasping his own wrists for warmth. Unlike the shuttered, insulated indoors, out here the air is moving and alive, and Charles feels his body shudder like coming back to life, each inhale and exhale blowing away the cobwebs.

There’s not much happening out there -- nobody else seems to want to be outside if they don’t have to -- but Charles can hear the sounds of clanging metal in the smithy on the far side, and he wanders over there with curiosity rising in him for the first time in weeks, pausing in the doorway to look inside.

The blacksmith, Forge, is working at the anvil, hammering out cherry-red metal with strong strokes of his arm, hand over hand as the steel lengthens under the blows; if he has a real name Charles doesn’t know it, but he does wonders with metal that are only exceeded by Erik’s own Gift-given skills. He nods when he spies Charles stood at the door, but says nothing, going back to his work as though the Duke’s husband isn’t watching at all. It’s nice. His mind is all metal and designs, and thoughts on how to improve his creations, and nothing at all about Charles or his pregnancy other than not minding his being there.

Charles stands and looks for a little while as Forge takes the blade to a big bucket of water and douses it in a hiss of steam, leaving it there to cool while he goes back to the furnace to take out another, glowing white hot from the heat. Eventually, though, Charles finds himself wandering over to the rack of swords stored on display on the back wall of the smithy, hilts up and blades down, gleaming in the light of the fire.

Most of them are very simple designs, straight blades with depressions running the length of the metal and strong, serviceable, unfancy hilts; however there are a few that are clearly more complex than the others, and it’s these that Charles is drawn to, reaching out with one hand to touch the intricate shaping where the hilt of one frames the blade, two arms bracketing it to either side and a thinner arm bracing it in the middle. Each of them is delicately shaped and looks too fine to hold together a sword, but when he touches them they are firm and solid, welded to the steel.

The hilt itself is just as elaborate, the metal ends of the cross-guards each shaped into the heads of wolves and the pommel another, larger wolf. Charles is tracing his finger across the incredibly textured metal fur when Logan says from behind him, “Your husband made that one. And the one next to it.”

Charles startles and turns, taken by surprise at the interruption; he hadn’t felt the Captain of the Ironguard approaching, nor heard him. Logan moves as quietly as a cat when he chooses, and his mind is so impossible for Charles to read -- all strange sounds and colours and unpleasantly headache-inducing -- that he has long since given up trying to read him in favour of blocking him out entirely.

Logan snorts and walks forward from where he stands in the doorway to one of the back rooms, hefting the sword Charles was admiring off the wall and cradling it in his rough hands. His face is black-streaked and covered in uneven stubble, as if he’s recently shaved his beard with his own claws. “Erik comes down here when he needs to think,” he says, turning the blade over and inspecting it himself, rubbing his sleeve over the gleaming pommel. “Nice balance, that.”

“And why do you come down here?” Charles asks, raising an eyebrow and trying to regain his calm.

“Me? I’m drying fish.”

“ _Fish?_ ”

“Wet, wriggly, creepy eyes, too many bones?”

Charles huffs, both amused and affronted. “I know what a fish is. I meant, why are you drying fish down here?”

It earns him another shrug, but then Logan gestures for Charles to follow him into the back room, waiting for him to go in first and following after.

The small chamber Charles finds himself in is smoky and cool, the air thick with it until he has to fight not to cough. The walls are lined with drying racks, row on row of wooden poles lashed to wooden stands, each of them with dozens of fish hanging from them, descaled and cut away from the bone so that the flesh hangs freely. The smell of woodsmoke and fish is almost overwhelming.

“The smoke from the smithy helps dry the fish out,” Logan says, prodding at the closest fillet with one claw, setting it spinning and bobbing on its line. “Forge built a pipe -- you can see it up there -- that brings the smoke in. Room’s far enough from the smithy not to get too warm, so it’s perfect for drying. Normally the door would be closed, but I’m tending the fish right now and even I gotta breathe.”

Charles looks around at the room full of fish, taking it all in. “What’s all this for?” he asks, keeping his face smooth through a series of small stomach cramps and settling his hands in the pockets of his coat to curl them, unseen, over his bump. “I’ve seen the castle stores, we have plenty for the winter.”

Logan snorts. “It’s not for the winter. It’s for the war. Soldier’s gotta eat.”

“Ah. I see,” Charles says, and to drown out the sinking feeling in his stomach he says before even thinking about it, “Can I help?”

Logan looks at him in surprise, bushy eyebrows climbing his face, but after a moment he shrugs and says, “I guess so. Why the hell not?” and then, handing Charles a knife, “You might wanna take off that thick coat of yours first though. And any clothes you mind getting fishy.”

They work in silence for a while, Charles helping to cut slashes into the meat to help the fish dry out more quickly and prevent rot and ignoring the juices getting on his hands and on his shirt, pleased just to be _doing something_. Logan seems happy enough to just let him get on with it with only the occasional interjection to correct his technique, showing him how to cut at an angle to give the moisture a path to run down and off the fish.

“You’re getting round,” Logan says after a while, and Charles stops what he’s doing to gape at him for a moment, because it’s such a -- well -- it feels so rude of Logan to comment on it that Charles isn’t sure what to say.

“I hear that happens during pregnancy,” he replies after a long pause.

A huff. “No shit.” Logan moves around to the far side of the rack Charles is working on and starts in on those as he continues, “When are you due?”

“Another four months. So early Spring, most likely.”

“Huh. How’s that going?” Logan asks, and Charles realises that Logan is trying to make conversation with him.

Charles has never really spent any time with Logan before, or had much chance to talk to the man - he’s always out on patrols and working with the alphas, and whenever Charles has seen him it’s always been in Erik’s presence and talking about military concerns. This is new, but potentially very good, if Charles can befriend him. He’s Erik’s number two in Ironhold, after all, and having more friends regardless of other motives would be very welcome.

“I’m well,” Charles says, setting down his knife on the rickety little table at the end of his row. “No sickness, which I’m told is fortunate. I suppose it’s going more or less to plan, as I understand it.”

“Erik’s already said to me he’s gonna leave me here to look after Ironhold when we get called down South for this Svarti shit,” Logan says, his face hidden by the smoke but his voice friendly enough. “Hoping it’ll be after the baby comes, of course; don’t want to be responsible for that mess. I’ll take the nice parts after, when everyone’s happy in Ironhold fussing over their new baby Duke or Duchess and not giving me grief, instead of wailing over whether the labour’s going to go well without your alpha around.”

“It’s not as though Erik will have much to do with the labour going well or not,” Charles says, perhaps a little sharper than he intended, because Logan chuckles.

“Other than wearing a groove in the floor, no - that’s fair enough! But people don’t half whimper about it nonetheless if the alpha’s not there. Usually the omega themself.”

“I would prefer it if nobody got called South at all.” Charles looks around for a rag to wipe his hands on and finds one hanging by the door, and sets to cleaning off the fish oils from his hands, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest at the thought of Erik leaving to go to war. “It would be better for everyone in the North if the army just stayed here and got on with the business of living, whether that be seeing the baby born or seeding next year’s crops.”

Logan comes to stand next to him, then, handing him a cleaner rag and taking the dirty one for himself. His voice is gruff when he says, “You’ll be all right. That man’d move heaven and earth to be here when his first is born, and King Shaw can go suck a bull’s cock if he thinks different. So don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Charles says, but he feels better anyway. despite himself.

 

 

~*~

 

The feeling carries over into the late afternoon, long after Moira kidnapped Charles back to his sitting room to be warmed up after spending so long in the cold smoky drying rooms outside. By the time Erik comes by for their daily period of mutual presence, it’s wearing off a little, but Charles is relaxed enough not to be disturbed when the door opens to let Erik in and Moira slips out, closing it behind herself with a quiet click.

It’s difficult to pinpoint how their unspoken agreement came about, but at some point Charles and Erik have fallen into the habit of spending a couple of hours together in the same room each day, not interacting, but concentrating instead on their own tasks and pastimes. If it were purely a matter of good spousal behaviour, Charles would have been much more disrupted by Erik’s silent presence in the armchair across from his, but the fact of the matter is that it’s become necessary if they’re not to go completely mad from denying their instinct to stay close during the pregnancy.

On days when Charles doesn’t see Erik between waking and sleeping he feels uneasy and anxious, fretting uselessly until he gives in and goes to find him; he can only assume that Erik feels the same way, because if Charles doesn’t go to him then Erik comes to Charles, with an expression just as unsettled and displeased as the one Charles can feel on his own face. Having Erik close enough to scent for a while each day, and his scent permeating the room, borne on the warm air from the fire, helps to settle that urge down and make it manageable, bearable.

The sex helps too, of course. But this feels like a very different need, and one Charles is glad is so easily overcome by ignoring one another in the same room for a period of time each day.

Today Erik takes his usual chair across the room, looking at Charles but glancing away the moment their gazes catch, as if this too violates the rules. He’s brought with him a set of three small metal balls which, once pulled from his pocket, instantly start orbiting in midair around Erik’s hand.

The light plays across them in patterns, swirling and fading as they rotate, and Charles looks down at his book, turning his attention away from his husband and back to astronomy.

He can still see them, though, out of the corners of his eye as Erik starts letting one become strange and liquid, as if he’s melted the metal without going any closer to the fire. The other two balls take to spinning round Erik’s head instead, as if for safe-keeping while Erik’s attention is focused on the third. In any other circumstance Charles would be fascinated -- if it were any other Gifted he would ask questions, try to understand the mechanics, but paying too much attention to Erik’s actions leads to thinking too much about Erik, and his actions, too, to feeling too in tune with him and forgetting his betrayal.

Charles turns the page in his book, studying the intricate illustration on the next sheet, and it takes all his willpower not to look up when Erik rises out of his chair. For a moment Charles thinks -- worries? -- that Erik is about to leave. But Erik isn’t leaving, he’s coming _closer_ , defying the silent rules of their agreement. Charles’ shoulders tense, half-expecting Erik to demand his more overt attention somehow. Only -- then Erik sits down again, on the hearth this time, long legs folding into a comfortable cross and those metal spheres still spinning in their orbits around his hand and head.

When Charles glances up Erik isn’t looking at him at all, focused intently on the molten metal now pooling in his palm. Perhaps he needs the heat? Charles relaxes again, curling his feet closer under his blanket and pressing back into the cushions to go back to his book.

At least today Erik seems to be very discretely focused on the metal. Other days he has a distracting habit of looking at Charles -- Charles catches him staring almost every time he glances up. But right now steel has taken Charles’ place, twisting up into the air to form a perfect, seamless ring, just the perfect size to fit on a finger -- before it crumples and falls heavy back into Erik’s hand.

Charles looks down at his book again, and for a while everything is fine. Erik is doing his metalwork, and Charles is reading about celestial navigation -- until he feels a sudden sharp twinge in his belly, strong enough to make him frown and press his fingers back against it, trying to rub whatever’s cramping back into place. It happens again, an inch further down, and this time Charles puts his book down in his lap, placing his palm thoughtfully over the spot where he felt it.

Erik notices; of course he does. Even with his new metal spheres, he seems to notice every breath Charles takes during this period of their day, and usually frowns at him for it. This time, Erik doesn’t frown, but the liquid metal in his palm is suddenly a solid ball once more, the other pair joining it before Erik slips them into his pocket again.

“Is something wrong?” Erik asks.

Charles shakes his head, and it happens again, in more or less the same place -- he can feel it this time with his hand as well as his body, like the gentlest little push against his palm (though it feels much stronger against his stomach from the inside). “I’m fine. I think the baby’s kicking.”

“Oh.” Erik’s tone is modulated, but there’s an alertness to him that wasn’t there before, or perhaps it’s just the way the light is reflecting from his eyes. He pauses for a long moment, then says: “May I … feel it?”

Charles almost wants to refuse, all the rules and regulations he’s set for himself in his interactions with Erik telling him that this is too intimate, that outside of sex it’s best not to touch. But … it’s Erik’s baby, too, regardless of how terrible a husband he is, and so Charles sighs and says, “...Alright,” tugging aside the blanket covering his legs and belly and lifting the hem of his jerkin to show skin. “Here.”

Erik rises to his feet and for a second Charles is ill-at-ease -- normally, in each other’s presence, they’re either both lying down or both seated. Standing this close Erik’s height manages to remind Charles in an uncomfortable way that, without his ability somehow miraculously letting him into Erik’s mind, Erik could overpower him easily. Erik closes the distance between them in less than two strides, settling down on his knees on the floor by Charles.

He just stares at Charles’ stomach for a few seconds, as if debating whether to touch him after all. His hand, when he finally lifts it, still hesitates before it finally makes contact between the tips of his fingers and Charles’ exposed skin.

They sit like that for a while as the baby moves inside Charles’ belly, Erik all tense angles and furrowed brow, until at last Erik says: “I don’t -- I can’t feel anything. It’s not doing it for me.” His voice is strange, cracked.

“You won’t feel anything like that, you need a flat surface. It’s not a big feeling,” Charles says, coolly as he can, and places his own hand on top of Erik’s, moving it over a little and then pressing down until Erik’s fingers splay and his hand makes full contact with Charles’ stomach. Erik’s hand is big and warm on his skin, and Charles holds it there until the baby kicks him again.

Erik’s expression clears all at once and he presses his hand harder against Charles’ belly, thumb moving, smoothing small caresses against Charles’ skin. “I feel it,” he murmurs. “I felt it that time. It’s there.” He glances up at Charles, grinning with far too many teeth, like he’s forgotten he’s supposed to be angry at Charles. “It kicked!”

Charles feels rather giddy himself, amazed and in love with this first sign of a little _person_ in there, not just his own swelling body but movement, now, palpable proof of its reality. “If you think _you_ can feel it, think how I feel,” he says, but it doesn’t come out as neutral as he means it to.

Erik’s other hand grasps onto Charles’ wrist, squeezing a little too tightly before he presses that palm, too, against Charles’ stomach and looks down, tilting his brow forward until Charles can feel the cold tip of Erik’s nose against his skin, the hot burst of Erik’s every outbreath.

It’s -- Erik looks -- Charles closes his eyes and lets his head tip back against the back of his chair instead of looking, because Erik looks so blissfully happy, kneeling there almost worshipping Charles’ pregnant stomach and their growing child inside of it, and it hurts. So Charles focuses on the feeling of the baby moving around inside him; now that he’s worked out what it is, what he thought was a well-overdue upset stomach for the last while has to have been the baby, shifting and stretching and learning the use of its limbs.

He wonders when, if, he will start to feel its mind, if it will reach back to him when he finds it, or if, like its other father, it will be blocked off from him, unreadable and distant.

He wants to tell Erik that the baby has stopped now, that he can sit back, but he can’t quite make himself say it. It feels too good to be touched with an intent he knows is pure and unmotivated by a desire to manipulate. Whatever else Erik may have lied about, he hasn’t lied about this. He wants Charles’ baby, if not Charles.

Whenever there’s a lull in the baby’s movements Erik shifts his hands on Charles’ bump, trying to find them again, as if he himself could coax movement from the child, murmuring something in that language which, like so many other things, Erik still keeps secret from Charles.

That evening when Charles provokes Erik into fucking him Erik does it with one hand always on Charles’ stomach, as if he’s waiting for something better to happen.

 

 

~*~

 

The next month goes on this way, getting colder and darker every day until the brief sunlight on days when the sky is clear feels like a dream, everything else just a matter of curling up somewhere warm to wait out midwinter. Charles’ belly grows, and the baby makes itself at home in there, moving and shifting at irregular intervals and pushing back against him. When Charles settles into his armchair with his books and papers, ready to learn while he has an excuse for idleness, he finds himself more often laying them aside and simply feeling, concentrating on that life inside of him and the mental spark he has started to sense, simple and uncomplex thoughts forming in a tiny, precious mind.

This, of course, he cannot share with Erik, but it is a comfort to him during the long and dreary days as more snow falls, burying Ironhold in its blanketing grip.

Charles is on his way down to the Great Hall for evening supper when the commotion starts, deep enough inside the castle for the blizzard raging against the high stone walls to be muffled; he hears the shouting clearly enough, though, and feels the surprise and confusion ringing from the minds of a group that has gathered around the courtyard door, gaping in shock and letting all the cold air in. He changes direction at once, heading for the centre of the commotion.

“What’s going on?” Charles asks when he’s close enough to be heard, though only the servants standing at the back of the crowd turn to look at him, stepping respectfully back; he walks through the gap they leave, pressing others aside where he needs to until he reaches the open door. “For the Gods’ sake, close it before we all freeze to death!”

One of the women turns to look at him and dips a rough curtsey, twitching her apron with her fingers. “Begging your pardon, but there are people coming up to the castle walls,” she says, excitement and suspense bubbling over in her like a hot spring. “Flying people!”

“What?” Charles looks outside, but all he can see is a wall of white where the blizzard is still hovering over Ironhold, burying the courtyard stones beneath it. “I don’t see anybody.”

“Guard saw them outside the walls,” the woman says, looking out again herself, popping her head past the doorframe then hastily pulling it back in when the wind whips at her long hair. “He said they were flying and that they’d reach us any time -- ”

The woman falls silent, gaping, and _they_ , the unknown travellers, float down from the sky above them to land outside the door, feet barely making a sound as they alight.

There are two of them, a man and a woman, and they seem to be surrounded by a sphere of clear and open air running counter to the wind of the blizzard; the woman is tall and stately, her dark skin a stark contrast to the brilliant white of her hair and the bright white colour of her eyes. The man is similarly dark-skinned, but he is covered in a thick layer of downy fur that almost obscures it, the long leathery wings protruding from his shoulders flapping uneasily as they take in the gathered crowd staring at them from just inside the doors.

They’re lucky it wasn’t better weather, Charles thinks, and that Erik isn’t here yet, or they may not have made it safely to the ground.

“Who goes there?” he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth to make sure his voice carries to them, stepping more fully into the doorway and blocking the way inside.

The woman steps forward, chin raised and proud. “Storm and Darwin of the House of the Southern Isles, both weary travellers hoping for somewhere to rest out this blizzard! Whom do I address?”

“And can we come in?” the man interjects, with a crooked smile.

“I’m the Duke’s Consort, Charles of the House of Lehnsherr. Please, come inside before all the warm air in Ironhold gets out,” Charles calls back, and turns to gesture for the gathered people to disperse. They do so obediently but reluctantly, at least until the more gossipy of them realise that they can now be the first to tell their friends.

The two Islanders come towards him with cautious steps, but once inside they both seem to relax a little -- Charles is fascinated to see the woman’s eyes turn from misty white to a crisp, clear blue, and the fur on the man’s skin receding along with his wings, as though they come out on demand rather than being part of his natural form.

“Welcome to Ironhold,” Charles says once he has shut the door, turning to look at them both with an assessing eye. “I must say it’s odd to see travellers of any sort, Gifted or not, in the North at this time of year. Let alone from so far South.”

“We’re grateful for your kindness in allowing us inside,” the woman starts, but that’s when Erik finally arrives, almost running down the corridor towards them with his face all furious scowl -- until he sees the woman.

“Ororo,” Erik says, the frown dropping from his lips even as his pace slows, though Charles can see he’s still breathing heavily. “Why are you here?” His gaze flicks toward the man. “Who’s this?”

“This is my younger brother, Armando,” the woman -- Ororo -- says, her expression becoming far warmer all of a sudden as she turns to face Erik. She bows neatly, and Charles realises as she straightens that she’s an alpha, and just as tall as Erik himself, who is by no means short. “It is good to see you, Erik.”

“You said your names were Storm and Darwin,” Charles says, frowning himself now.

“An Islander tradition,” Erik explains, almost dismissively. “Because of their Gifts. Ororo, you still haven’t told me why you’re here.” But despite his words, Erik hardly seems upset; he reaches out his hand and Ororo takes it, squeezing slightly.

She smiles, all white teeth and pleasantness, and that’s when Charles sees in her mind the real reason they’ve come, even as she says, “We were travelling, but the snow got the better even of me in the end, so I thought we’d best make for Ironhold until it was over.”

In her head, Ororo is thinking of fire. Of burning ships and the smell of burning flesh and hair, of screams and marching feet and the King taking from the Islands what he wanted -- their navy and their riches. Of the conscription that followed, and followed, and followed, and of the hate and greed that has led the kingdom to the point of war with the Svarti. And of her and her family deciding, _no more_.

She has come to ask Erik to fight with them, instead of with King Shaw, and to attack the kingdom itself.

Charles is hard pressed not to react; as it is he sways a little on his feet at the vivid violence in her memories and the strength of her conviction, over the scale of the thing. He keeps his eyes from widening, or his mouth from falling open, only by the fiercest of efforts.

Erik notices, of course, releasing Ororo’s hand to step closer to Charles, a steadying arm curling briefly around his waist. The look Erik gives him is sharp, guarded, though Erik tears his gaze away quickly enough.

“We’re about to have dinner,” Erik says, and Charles feels a slight twinge of pain at his hip: Erik’s fingers, digging into his skin. “You’re welcome to join us, and to stay here in Ironhold as long as you like.”

Charles puts his own hand over Erik’s, placing his fingers between Erik’s and prying them under Erik’s hold on him, making it look casual as he forces Erik to stop pinching him. “If you’d rather warm up and change clothes first, we can arrange for dinner to be brought to you instead.”

But Ororo shakes her head, still wearing that masking smile. “I think I’d rather get some food in my stomach first -- using my powers for so long drains my energy. And besides, I’d like to get to know you as well, your Grace. I was surprised to hear Erik had married.”

“Please, call me Charles,” Charles murmurs.

“Yes, well,” Erik says, laughing lightly, “I’m sure there are several in the Capital who owe you quite a bit of money on that old bet of yours, Ororo. Come, the dining hall is this way.” He lets go of Charles’ waist at last, but now that his hands are freed, Charles can see, on Erik’s finger, his wedding ring, twisting round and round and round.

As they walk through the castle towards the great hall the visitors cause quite a stir. Charles can feel the surprise of the people they pass at Ororo and Armando’s skin and hair -- so different from the Northerner’s winter paleness -- and their windswept appearances, still weighed down with thick oilskin coats and heavy packs. The fact they brought no servants of their own would have told Charles much even without reading Ororo’s mind. No noble ever travelled without servants unless their destination needed to be utterly secret.

By the time they reach the top table two additional seats have been laid for the visitors and bowls set at them, piled with hot, steaming stew. Neither of the Islanders stands on ceremony; instead they lay their packs down against the rear wall and come to sit down, Ororo on Erik’s right, and Armando at Charles’ left.

“Please, help yourselves,” Charles says, and they set to.

It’s a quiet few minutes while the visitors try not to wolf down their stew; Charles himself is hardly any slower, though the baby is shifting inside of him and making it difficult to feel comfortable. After the first hunger is appeased, however, Armando slows down, taking a long drink of ale from his cup and turning to face Charles more properly.

“Your sister sent a letter with me for you,” he says cheerfully, setting the cup down. “She also sends her love, though forgive me if I only pass that along verbally.”

At the same time, in his head, Armando says, very deliberately, _I need to speak with you alone. Raven sent a message with me for you._

Charles freezes for a moment, taken by surprise, spoon clacking awkwardly against his bowl. But then he smiles with genuine happiness and surprise, eyes crinkling, “Thank you very much. It has been a long time since I heard from Raven.”

In his mind he asks, _You know Raven? How much did she tell you? Obviously more than most._

 _She said to tell you that you can trust me,_ Armando replies, and plays back a memory -- meeting with Raven, receiving the letter and further instructions that he does not focus on now, instead emphasising her trust and their pact to silence. _Ororo doesn’t know, just me. Can you meet me later?_

 _Not tonight,_ Charles says, and takes a sip of his own drink -- they’ve been silent too long not to have their mouths full. _I’ll see what I can do._

“Ororo told me about you, Armando,” Erik says; he’s watching them, fingers holding his spoon but doing nothing with it. “Back when we were at court together. Apparently as a child you were something of a practical jester. Shall I tell the servants to keep their eyes peeled?”

“Only if you dislike surprises.” Armando smiles. “In any case, Ororo would never permit me to play pranks in our host’s house. You’re perfectly safe.”

Ororo leans forward from Erik’s far side, her hair swaying forward over her shoulder. “Erik’s an old friend, and he’s always been far too serious, even for a Northerner. Perhaps he could benefit from a few pranks.” She grins in Erik’s direction, but Erik himself barely cracks a smile.

Charles puts on a smile too, though he’s starting to be concerned about Erik, since Ororo is apparently someone he should be comfortable with; Erik is only usually this tense when Charles is involved, and Charles wonders if Erik picked up on the overlong silence between himself and Armando.

Several minutes later, after both Islanders have had their fill, and with his own bowl still apparently untouched, Erik rises. “Shall I have someone show you to your rooms?”

Charles frowns, thinking quickly and getting to his own feet, though it’s less graceful a rise than Erik’s, these days. “You haven’t eaten a thing. I’ll arrange for someone to get the guest rooms ready, and you can stay here and eat your stew.”

“I’m quite satiated, thank you, Charles,” Erik says, and he steps round the corner of the table to offer Charles his arm. “Unless you yourself are still hungry? I’d hate to sit and eat alone.”

Damn. If he could have taken their guests upstairs himself it would have afforded him more opportunity to speak with Armando, or to investigate Ororo’s mind further with the benefit of calmness and foresight. Erik definitely knows something is up. Charles makes himself smile again, and says, quite naturally, “I’ve had enough for now, I think, though I’m sure I’ll be hungry again later.” He places his hand in the crook of Erik’s elbow, light and noncommittal.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Ororo says, rising along with her brother.

“It’s no trouble.” Erik says, leading Charles toward the door, the two guests following after. “Elsa and Helga here will help you to your rooms. They will be your exclusive servants while you are staying here. Just call any time you need them.”

 _Erik knows about my telepathy,_ Charles sends to Darwin as they walk, quiet and keeping his face turned slightly down in case his expression gives him away. _He doesn’t know that I’m aware he knows, though, and I’d like to keep it that way. Do not mention telepathy to anyone here._

 _All right,_ Darwin sends back, and when they separate from him and his sister on the stairs, Helga leading them towards their rooms, Charles doesn’t so much as glance back.

 

 

  
~*~

 

_Erik_

****

Charles is becoming a problem.

Erik can admit it to himself, here, alone in his library, standing at the windows and gazing out over the wide white valley, icy and lifeless. Perhaps he should have expected something like this from the moment he realised Charles’ Gift; but as it is, at the time, Erik thought the information would only ever be of benefit to him. At first it was a secret with which he could blackmail Charles, the way Charles had him, if it ever became necessary to do so. Later it became … something else, something he started to wish Charles would tell him, would trust him enough to tell him, in his own words and on his own terms.

But not now. Now he sees it for what it truly is: a fire that has blazed out of control, that threatens to turn to ashes everything Erik has striven so hard to build.

He tilts his brow against the cold glass. He vitrified it himself, seven or eight years ago, after seeing what lightning could do to the black sand beaches when it struck. At the time, it had felt like his greatest accomplishment. Now it’s just another dead thing, no soul bound to it to make his senses spark the way the metal marbles in his pocket do.

When Erik speaks to Ororo, it will only be a matter of time before Charles has plucked the information neatly from her mind and knows all about Erik’s intentions to invade the South and depose Shaw as King. And Charles will immediately turn on him.

A small voice, the voice Erik usually thinks is the pragmatic one, suggests that he can still hold Charles’ telepathy over his head if necessary. That despite the way his stomach clenches at the idea of blackmailing Charles, it would still be a better choice than allowing Shaw to execute Erik, his agents, and the surviving Frjáls in the North. That voice would be right, if and only if Erik didn’t think Charles would just threaten to sell his telepathic Gift to Shaw for self-protection in exchange for the news of Erik’s treason. Once upon a time, he would not have thought Charles capable of following through with such a betrayal. But these past few months, with Charles so cold and distant, Erik doesn’t know what to think anymore.

He feels heavy, his body dragging him down as he considers.

If Charles _is_ willing to turn Erik in to avoid war, then he will do it regardless of what Erik says. And Erik should kill him where he stands, before he can follow through. The very thought clenches something sick and unsteady in the pit of his stomach and his eyes clench shut, the metal panes holding the window glass in place rattling violently before he’s able to regain enough control to release his Gift’s grip on them.

Pragmatic, yes. Killing Charles is the obvious choice if he is rational, if he cares for the good of his people above all. But rational or not, Erik doesn’t have the stomach for it.

 _Mother, forgive me_. He cannot kill the man he loves. He cannot kill his unborn child. Not even to save his people. Not even if Charles would happily see Erik executed for treason. Not then, and not ever. Even dismissing the option doesn’t quite ease the nausea that roils up the back of his throat, or the sensation of his heart turning over in his chest.

He pulls one of the iron marbles from his pocket and turns it over in his hand, smoothing out ridges and dimples, making it a perfect sphere. So, what now? In one situation, he dies. But what if Charles doesn’t turn him in? Is that even a reasonable premise on which to base an argument?

Consider what he knows: Charles is intelligent. He is manipulative, willing to threaten and blackmail when necessary to get what he wants. He is Southern-born, and still thinks pleasantly upon his birthplace. He has shown sympathy for the Frjáls, during the massacre, and Erik has reason -- however sentimental -- to believe that sympathy was genuine. Of course, he had reason to believe Charles’ apparent affection for him was genuine, too, before Charles erased it again. How easily could he have buried the memory of those bodies, or the wounded child Charles helped nurse?

No. He must not use Charles’ emotions as evidence; it’s clear Erik has no true understanding of them, and they change too fluidly for Erik to rely on them. Any assumptions he makes, they must be predicated on the fact that Charles will inevitably seek the end that is to his own greatest benefit. His, and his sister’s. A philosophy that, apparently, Erik himself finds impossible to adopt.

Erik turns away from the window and walks toward his desk, sitting down in the chair and setting his marble atop a sheaf of parchment, letting it roll in tightly controlled circles while he thinks.

What is in Charles’ best interest, then? Being exposed as a telepath is not. For Charles, that would surely be a risky gamble, hoping that Shaw’s use for him when he already has a pet telepath of his own is great enough that Shaw would consider sparing Charles’ life. Charles wouldn’t take the chance, not unless Erik pushed him into that corner, which would only happen if Erik tried using his knowledge of Charles’ telepathy to force him to keep his secrets. So blackmail is off the table. Erik can’t help admitting to feeling faintly relieved.

Being on the losing side of a war is not in Charles’ best interest, either. If he is to survive, it must be at the side of the victor. Erik. But Erik cannot win if he is betrayed this soon. He isn’t prepared, and he would lose the element of surprise.

That would necessitate Charles being able to get such information out of Ironhold and to Shaw’s people, though, which would be difficult to do if Erik was anticipating it. But not impossible. Erik couldn’t forbid any coming and going from Ironhold indefinitely, not even if he claimed plague. And he couldn’t build his army that way, either.

Erik stops the metal ball from moving mid-circle, and it flattens into a thin sheet of iron, his jaw clenching. There is no solution. There is no easy, secure way to control Charles, or to know he can trust him. Perhaps if things were still as they had been, Erik could have known Charles would stay by him even through all this. As it is, all Erik can hope for is to buy himself time, and to beg Charles to keep his secrets. For the sake of their child. For the sake of Charles’ own reputation, if nothing else. He can reassure Charles of his armies’ might, and thus solidify Charles’ confidence that the North will be the prevailing side. Charles was never at court; he owes no particular allegiance to Shaw beyond the fealty his father once swore to him. Not to mention, Shaw’s policy regarding telepaths can’t possibly win the King any points in Charles’ favour.

Erik wishes he didn’t have to consider Charles so coldly, but this is what they’ve come to. And he doesn’t doubt that when Charles discovers Erik’s plans, he’ll regard Erik with an equally icy gaze.

He’s been avoiding Ororo for three days now, having told his guards to instruct all visitors that he was out on scouting missions, or training troops, or repairing the copper heating system. She almost certainly knows he’s hiding something by now; she just can’t possibly realise that he’s hiding it from _Charles._

No excuses now, though. He has a plan for confronting Charles, or for allowing Charles to confront him, even if it’s flimsy at best. The alternatives did not bear thinking about, so flimsy must suffice. He tells one of the guards in the hall to fetch her and settles down on his favourite sofa, turning his gaze back out over the countryside, at the white snow and grey sky.

It’s ten minutes until she knocks. “Enter,” Erik says, not turning away from the window.

Ororo walks into the library with the rolling gait of someone used to being at sea, confident and at ease despite Erik’s stalling; she looks around the room appreciatively, pale eyes taking in the long, full shelves with approval. “I had forgotten how lovely this room is. Fine for hide and seek, of course, but your father had good taste to furnish it with books.”

“It’s the best room in Ironhold, I’ve always thought,” Erik says. “Do you like the view?” he gestures toward the windows.

“Very much,” Ororo says, pacing over to look out over the land below, her eyes clouding white for a moment as she uses her Gift. “We have nothing so high above ground at home. I did miss this room when my fostering came to an end, but it had nothing so grand as these glass windows back then -- your addition, I assume? In any case, it reminds me that I have known you for a long time, Erik.”

She turns then, and fixes him with a calm yet firm gaze, the line of her mouth flat and smooth. “So. Since we know one another so well, I will be frank -- are you done pretending you do not know what I came to speak to you about? In the middle of winter, to your frozen Northlands? It was not an easy journey, even for me.”

The metal square on Erik’s desk slowly floats back toward his hand, reforming itself into a smooth sphere before it ever touches his fingertips. “Yes,” he says after a moment’s silence. “You want me to declare war against the King. To crush him from the North while your navies batter Westchester and the Capital.”

Ororo nods, folding her arms behind her back and taking a wide, ship’s captain’s stance. “Yes. You and I both know, Erik, from bitter personal experience, what a monster and a tyrant King Shaw is. And he will never stop, not even to die, unless someone stops him. Until you and I put an end to it.”

Erik rises slowly from the sofa, tucking the steel ball back into his pocket along with his hands. “You know I would give my life to see him dead.” For years, it was the only thing Erik lived for at all: the hope that he would one day be the person to pull Shaw’s still-beating heart from his chest. “You know I want him deposed.”

Even while they were at Shaw’s court together, they still whispered treasonous things behind Ororo’s fan, or at night in Erik’s rooms, alone; everyone thought they must be having an affair, sleeping together the way young and reckless and unattached alphas sometimes do. Emma Frost was not yet at court. There was no one to know, even if they ever were to suspect, that any of it was more than youthful rebellion.

“I’ve been training my armies for this purpose ever since my father died,” Erik says softly, watching Ororo with steady eyes. “I will drive them South and I will see Shaw dead. I will have his throne be mine. If that is agreeable to you, then you may consider me the most faithful of allies. I do, however, have one further condition.”

“Which is?”

“My armies are strong, but they are not yet prepared for a war of this scale. And Shaw’s forces are still large, and well-stocked, with resources to spare. For how long Shaw has been planning this war against the Svarti, they must be.” The iron in Erik’s pocket is hot now, but it does not burn his skin even as it singes the lining of his trousers. “We should wait until that war is ended. I can ensure, of course, that Shaw comes out the worse for it. We let the Svarti tear a hole in his troops, in their rations and their armories. And then, when he is weakened, we finish him off.”

Ororo looks thoughtful throughout his speech, and when he finishes she nods again, once, sharp and precise. “That makes good sense, though I regret the need to wait and waste more lives on Shaw’s thirst for domination.”

“Better to waste his lives than ours,” Erik says.

“Yes,” says Ororo, “but you forget -- in the North your alphas join your army of their own free will. In the Islands our young alphas are still subject to Shaw’s conscription, and it’s them who pay the price for our patience. We’ll lose many of our own along with Shaw’s.”

“And you would lose many more if you attacked now, while he is still at full strength. Lives lost, with nothing gained from it except our heads on spikes outside the gates of Hammer Bay.”

At this Ororo sighs, looking away through the window, lips pursed and downturned at the corners. “True enough,” she says, bringing her arms in front of her chest and refolding them under her breasts. “Very well. I have in mind to visit Svartiland after I leave here, to speak with their Queen. If you wish to send a letter to her, we can coordinate all three efforts to wear down the King before we show our colours.”

She looks back at Erik, and her gaze is determined, fierce. “We cannot afford to wait longer than this war, Erik. No more. I’d rather die trying than cower under his thumb any longer.”

“You will do neither,” Erik says. “We will win. Shaw will pay for everything he has done, to my people and to yours.” He rests a firm hand on her shoulder. “I am glad you’re in this with me, Ororo. I had hoped this was why you’d come.”

The wind howls around the outside of the castle and rattles the windows like it’s trying to get in; Ororo flicks her fingers and it dies down enough that her voice is clear when she says, “I’m glad you’re with me too, Erik. There is no mainland noble I trust more, though that may be down to my having been there when you fell into the pickling barrel and Logan had to fish you out. It does bring me a certain amount of leverage.”

Erik laughs, suddenly, surprising himself. “Yes. Yes, I remember. You made sure the kitchen staff served me pickled herring every day for the next two weeks with supper!”

“To help you over your trauma,” Ororo says blithely, though she is smiling, too. “And look at you now. It’s made you a great warrior, Erik. No man better to help me take down a tyrant.”

“All thanks to your pickles, apparently.”

“Speaking of pickles…” Ororo pauses before continuing, “Can we trust your husband? He is from the Southern mainland, after all, and his sister Raven of Westchester lives at court for the time being, until she comes of age. I know he’s carrying your child, but can we rely on him to side with you against his own people when it comes to it? Charles Xavier was always known to be a quiet one. Nobody ever knew which way he would leap when he spent his time at court.”

“I’m not sure,” Erik says, unable to bring himself to lie to Ororo’s face, his hand dropping from her shoulder. “He’s flighty. Mercurial. Once I would have said ‘yes,’ but now?” Erik shrugs. “I’ll speak to him.”

“Very well. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And, Erik?”

“Mmm?”

She smiles, raising her own hand to clasp his elbow. “Congratulations.”

 

 

~*~

 

_Charles_

****

Erik is definitely suspicious. It’s very difficult to find a good time to meet with Armando when Logan and Moira are following Charles around, making sure he gets some exercise and making sure he’s comfortable, respectively. The tour of the army is especially telling -- the sheer numbers of men still bivouacked at Ironhold even in this season, and the packed armoury, tell him that Erik is building up to something. Since Logan has never shown any previous interest in Charles’ understanding of the North’s armed forces, and Charles can read directly from Moira’s mind that Erik has asked her to stick close to him for the next few days, there’s no doubting that Erik is worried about their guests being around Charles.

In the end, Charles does something he’s not proud of resorting to, and once it’s done he invites Armando to his sitting room in the mid-afternoon of the fourth day of their visit.

Armando walks into the sitting room with cautious confidence, then stops abruptly when he sees Moira slumped in her chair, head tipped over to one side and resting against the high back. “Is she all right?”

Charles smiles tightly. “She’s just sleeping. I had to encourage her along a little, but she’ll be fine.”

“I must say, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Armando gives Moira’s chair a wide berth as he walks to where Charles sits, though he remains standing, waiting for Charles’ leave to do otherwise. “Especially after all Raven’s tales. I find them all to be true, in the best of ways.”

If his mind didn’t show him to be sincere, Charles would find this speech disingenuous, but Armando means every word, and Charles snorts, gesturing for him to take the armchair kitty-corner to his own. “That I have good manners, or that I’m presently the size of a cow?”

“Both, your Grace.” Armando’s lips quirk upward as he sits down, knees angled toward Charles.

“Please, call me Charles. Nobody up here stands on ceremony at all and I’m used to it now. How is Raven?”

“She’s well,” Armando says. “Though your recent letter left her … out of sorts. She wants me to tell you she’s furious about what you said regarding your husband, and that she’s coming up here herself as soon as the roads are passable. To ‘tear his cock off’, in her words.” Armando pointedly crosses his legs, putting a little theatricality into the motion.

Charles makes himself smile, though the reminder makes his heart sink in his chest, the old pain rising behind his breastbone. He shifts in his chair, adjusting the fall of his heavy belly in his lap. “Thank you. I’m glad to know she’s well. Forgive me -- it’s evident that you know her, but what’s the connection? Raven hasn’t mentioned you to me before, and that strikes me as odd. Especially carrying some very secret information for her.”

“I’m in some of her classes,” Armando says. “And Raven knows a potential ally when she sees one. She’s been organising a group of us -- young nobles dissatisfied with the King’s rule, all with interests in tearing little holes in his economic and political securities. She’s been quite … influential, in that regard. Dangerously so, I would say, but if Emma Frost has noticed she’s said nothing.”

“Hmm.” Charles skims the surface of Armando’s thoughts for the associated memories -- Raven talking by the fire to a group of young alphas and betas; striking a valiant figure in their swordsmanship lessons with Master Azazel; writing letters and telling them about Charles, passing on objectives and lessons he taught her himself.

He can’t help but feel both exasperated and proud, fondness almost eclipsing his worry. It’s been too long since he saw his sister, even in a memory.

“Emma Frost is interested in self-preservation and her own comfort, and that’s the be-all and end-all of it,” Charles says, reaching for the poker and stirring up the fire a little. “When I was at court I saw enough of her thoughts to know that she’s as sick of the King’s rule as everyone else, so I doubt she would say anything if she thinks we have a chance of winning. She must know that Shaw’s day is coming to an end -- there’s only so much any kingdom can take before it hits a tipping point. Much better for her if it’s a relatively peaceful revolution, which is what I’d prefer, and what we’re working to engineer.”

“Not all of us,” Armando says, the line of his lips going grim. “You and Raven and your young nobles, perhaps, yes. But that’s not the reason Ororo came up North. You have to know that much.”

“Oh, yes. I’m aware.” Charles exhales, hard and long, fingers curling around the arm of his chair as he sets the poker down again before he can’t resist the urge to brandish it like a sword. “Her and my husband both. She made an agreement last night with Erik, that they’re going to attack Shaw after the war with the Svarti. Instead of trying to stop it from happening at all, and making that Shaw’s weakness. Alphas!”

Armando shrugs, clasping his fingers together in his lap. “Perhaps it’s just that I’m alpha as well, then, but I don’t think they’re wrong. Shaw won’t step kindly aside just because enough youngsters are complaining. He’s going to need a little push, of the iron sort.”

“I’m not naïve enough to think Shaw will go peacefully, but a civil war on this scale will kill thousands,” Charles says. “The fewer nobles who support him, the fewer troops he will have on his side, and the less money he has to feed and arm them, the same. The more we weaken his power base, the easier he will be to take down and the less killing will be necessary -- it’s simple mathematics, but instead they’re planning to go in on one big blaze of glory and fight an epic battle to the death. Perhaps it’s because I’m an omega, but I prefer to limit my unintended casualties.”

Armando shakes his head. “The way I see it, if the Iron Duke’s agreed to go in with the Islanders over this, then there’s no use in us sitting here playing pacifist and watching the bloodshed. You’re his husband. I’m Ororo’s brother. We can form an alliance. This Svarti war’s a perfect cover for us to do what we need to do over the next months or years. Shaw’s troops will be weak enough after one war to begin with. If you speak to your husband about this, and I to my sister, I’m sure we can come to some mutually satisfactory arrangement.”

Charles shakes his head, a rueful twist coming to his mouth. “Erik wants vengeance, not peace. Shaw decimated the North when he invaded here -- Erik seems dead-set on doing the same to the South, regardless of the fact that most Southerners had no share in the war. Erik would never accept that Raven is the closest alpha relation to the King, nor that she would make the kingdom a fine, fair and brilliant Queen. He only sees blood to be shed.”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a long moment before he can make himself continue. “Besides, he hasn’t yet mentioned this to me at all. I’m a means to an end, for Erik. A womb. He won’t listen to me about this.”

“You still have to try,” Armando says. “I won’t mince words; you said not to worry about the formalities, so I won’t. It’s your responsibility to see this through, whatever it takes. All of us in Raven’s circle, we see you as our leader. If you appear weak, and afraid to confront your own alpha on this issue, you will lose support quickly. You have to speak with him.”

The words sting, and Charles’ hand closes into a fist on his knee, jaw clenching -- but then he swallows, and makes himself say, “You’re right. Gods above curse it, but Erik must see sense on this. The South would never accept him as King -- there’d be another revolution soon enough, just like Shaw has created by doing the same damn thing.”

Charles can feel his guts clenching up inside of him, and the baby’s mind like a silver fish, unreadable and strange, curled and safe in Charles’ womb, waiting to come out into a world that Charles has a responsibility to make for him or her -- to make into the world he wants for his child.

All right. All right.

He looks at Armando and his gaze is firm, his mouth set and determined, mirroring Charles’ own expression. “All right. I will create a series of instructions for Raven, which I am going to place into your mind for safekeeping -- nothing in writing, in case it’s intercepted. Regardless of what happens with Erik, I expect her to follow them, provided circumstances don’t change beyond my ability to predict. Please pass these along to her at the earliest opportunity, and do so in person if possible. I will need you to tell me how many followers Raven has, and who they are. Can you put together a list for me?”

“I will have it for you by the end of the day. Such that it is.” Armando’s eyes flicker toward the small slit window and the darkness outside.

“Good. Thank you, Armando.” Charles smiles, and offers his hand to Armando to shake -- the grip that envelops his is rough but warm, and he can see why Raven likes this man. “I think I’ve been too long isolated up here -- I just needed a kick. Thank you for being honest with me.”

“Of course,” Armando says, rising out of his chair when Charles releases his hand. “I’ll have a word with my sister about the same. Hopefully we can be prepared with a solution before we leave Ironhold.”

“Then I’ll speak to Erik,” Charles says, and ignores the heartsick feeling in his chest in favour of planning how to confront his husband.

 

~*~

 

In the end Charles sets the scene for their confrontation the same way they had their first fight, the night they were married; in their bedroom, sitting on the end of their bed and waiting for Erik to come to him. His hands are clasped loosely in his lap and his face is calm, held impervious to anger, breathing with careful deliberacy -- not too fast, not too slow. No fear. No weaknesses. He will talk to Erik, and if possible keep away from emotional arguments.

They will talk about the war, and nothing more. If Erik tries to talk about why Charles pulled away from him -- well, that is not up for discussion.

Charles swallows, hard, and waits. He loses track of time, in the eternal black of midwinter. The thin candle clock on the trunk at the foot of the bed has burnt down to the third marking since Charles lit it: it must be past midnight. Even so, Charles does not move, except when the baby forces him to get up and use the chamber pot, ignoring exhaustion when it leaks into his mind and body until the overpowering urge to sleep has passed.

When Erik finally enters, he opens the door slowly and quietly, as if careful not to wake Charles. When he sees that Charles is not only still awake but sitting at the foot of their bed, waiting for him, it’s not surprise but a look of grim resignation that settles onto Erik’s face.

“I was expecting it would take you another day or two yet,” Erik says, closing the door behind him. Charles doesn’t miss the slight flick of his fingers toward the latch, even though there is no locking noise: Erik has fused the door shut.

“Then you don’t know me very well, it seems.” Charles refuses to get up, though the locked door is troubling -- good for keeping out eavesdroppers, but it means there’s no escape if Erik doesn’t like what Charles has to say. Charles is at his mercy. His gut clenches, but his voice is calm when he says, “I know about your war plans, Erik. And we need to talk about them before it’s too late. I can’t let you just march off to send the whole kingdom into civil war like this. For one, far too many innocents will die. And for another, it’s brutish and foolish, and there is far too much you don’t know.”

A long pause. Then:

“Thank you,” Erik says, bending into an exaggerated bow, “for doing me the eminent favour of expressing your opinion. You know how much I value your perspective on matters of war.”

Of course Erik doesn’t want to listen. Charles sighs and rolls his eyes, and says, “For -- don’t be an ass, Erik. I’ve been working on toppling the King for the past three years, and you’re about to charge in like a bull and destroy everything I’ve worked for. At least let me explain to you before you start flapping your mouth and making angry noises.”

Erik unhitches his sword from around his hips, his Gift catching the scabbard and its contents, hurling them away from him perhaps a little too forcefully. His teeth are gritted when he says, “Yes, please explain. I look forward to hearing of these plans you instigated when you were a child of sixteen.”

Charles stays still, though his feet are itching to get up, to put some height in his favour -- but if Erik is getting angry, it might just make him aggressive. Raising his chin instead, Charles says, “For the past three years I’ve been using trade, economic strategy, spycraft and politics to undermine Shaw’s power among the nobles of the kingdom, making him appear weak when he needs to appear strong, strengthening the positions of nobles I trust, and spreading information about his secret doings among those whose support for him could be turned away, all with the aim of breaking down his hold over the kingdom and reducing his power.”

Charles pauses, and changes his mind. He stands, folding his hands behind his back, confidence rising as he speaks. “So. When it comes to the final confrontation, Shaw will be friendless, powerless, and unable to raise a true defence, unable to feed or arm or pay his troops, and far simpler to take down than a king ruling over a kingdom that is fighting back against a common enemy. Like, say, an invading army of Northerners and Islanders, neither of which group is accepted by mainlanders as being truly part of the Kingdom. I and Raven are the King’s closest relatives; when the time comes Raven will be Queen, and we will have taken from Shaw everything that he values with the minimum of bloodshed.”

Charles lifts his chin higher. “I was a very busy sixteen-year-old. I was not a fool.”

Erik crosses his arms over his chest, but at least his anger seems to have leveled out for the moment, rather than intensifying. “Fascinating,” Erik says flatly. “How strange, then, that I was never approached by anyone seeking to turn my loyalties away from Shaw, given that my men are the primary basis for his army. I wonder what exceptionally _important_ nobles you must have been currying favour with, that I was not one of them.”

And Charles shakes his head, can’t help but let the corner of his mouth twist. “Erik, I _married you_.”

“How thoroughly you seem to have kept me in your pocket, considering you never knew of my intentions, despite the marriage and this extensive network of spies,” Erik drawls, taking a half-step closer to where Charles sits. “How easy it would have been, to take advantage of my raw emotions when we encountered the site of the massacre in August.”

The memory of that day is burned into Charles’ mind like a permanent mark, and he frowns, insulted at the very suggestion.

“I would never have used that against you!” Charles shoves down the incongruous hurt of Erik’s words, trying to focus on what he meant to say. “Shaw is a monster who needs to be stopped. You already know that -- what kind of person do you think I am, to rub that in your face? I came here because I had to marry someone, and because there was a chance of bringing you to our side. I’ve run out of time, is all, to show you why it’s necessary. I don’t force people.”

“Oh,” Erik says, barking out a short laugh, unfolding his arms and closing the remaining distance between himself and the bed, until he and Charles are uncomfortably close and Charles can smell the sharpness of his alpha’s scent. “You ran out of time? But you were doing such a good job, you really were.” He touches Charles’ cheek in a mockery of affection, lips curving into a poisonous grin. “You make me fall half in love with you, and then you tear it all away! I’m not sure what effect that was _meant_ to have on my loyalties to you, but I’m sure it hasn’t worked out quite the way you planned.”

Fall half in love -- the lie sticks in Charles’ throat like the bone of a fish, and Charles’ lungs stop in his chest, his blood rising to his face and fury rising up inside of him until he snaps.

Viciously angry and reckless beyond caution, his words come out sharp and bitten off, his hands in fists. “You’re hardly my victim, Erik -- you’ve been using me from the start, looking to manipulate me, use me -- I came to you honestly, and you -- ”

“And I what?” Erik pulls away from Charles, straightening to his full height, Charles’ wedding ring around his fourth finger suddenly blazing hot. “I swear on my mother’s soul, the things that must count for honesty in your wretched South! I _what_ , Charles?”

Charles tears the ring from his finger and throws it to the ground, the metal bouncing off the stone with a loud chime and rolling into the fire in the grate. “And you never loved me at all,” Charles shouts, feels burnt and bristling all over, his anger something palpable and real in the room, like a wild animal -- he can tell Erik feels it, his eyes widening as Charles’ fury roils and blisters the air, a sensation of everything boiling over. “You set out to _use_ me, like a _thing_ , you hated me from the start, and I heard what you said to Magda, Erik! Honesty? Ha! I fell for you, you bastard, and now I’m trapped in this frozen wasteland with your child in me, and I want you to _let me out of this room right now._ ”


	10. Ten

Chapter Ten

 

_Erik_

When Erik was a child, after he crawled out of the ashes of his grandmother’s village and let Logan carry him, barely-conscious, back to Ironhold, he nearly forgot what it was to be human. His mother told him later that his fever only lasted for a week, but to Erik it felt like a lifetime. What he remembers of that week is fractured and fragmented. His body was broken and burned, his injuries hidden under his clothes, from his father as much as from himself. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was the way Erik felt as if some fundamental part of him had withered and blown away; the empty place where it should have been hurt far more deeply than his cracked ribs.

Erik had flinched from his own body. From his own memories. For seven days, his consciousness was only metal: the cool silver of his mother’s jewelry, the furious heat of molten iron in the forge, his father’s bitter sword, the buttons on the shirt of the nurse who changed out the cool compress on his brow as Erik lost himself in his surroundings.

It would have been easier, to stay that way forever. To bury himself in the magnetic silt in Ironhold’s stones and never again emerge. He wouldn’t have to face the emptiness. He wouldn’t have to face his father, and try to square his own filial love with the knowledge that it was his father’s orders that caused him this pain. Even the nightmares were sweeter than his reality.

But eventually Erik’s body drew him back to itself like magnetic north. He wasn’t the same, after that; he left some part of himself behind, somewhere, and even his name no longer felt like his own. Erik himself now tired quickly of the childish things and people which used to amuse him. His Gift was the only thing that grounded him. His anger and hate were the only things that felt safe.

“You never loved me at all! You set out to _use_ me, like a _thing,_ you hated me from the start, and I heard what you said to Magda, Erik! Honesty? Ha! I fell for you, you bastard, and now I’m trapped in this frozen wasteland with your child in me, and I want you to _let me out of this room right now.”_

And now, with Charles’ words still ringing in his ears, Erik finds his awareness thrown out in a million directions and over miles, seizing onto everything metal he can find -- from his sword on the floor and the spheres in his pocket to the plates and cutlery in the town, the hammered steel loops on horses’ harnesses in a patrol camp to the south, silver Frjáls candlesticks, a woman’s gold necklace, to the seam of iron slashing through the earth down below. Erik plunges himself into everything he can sense until he can no longer feel the floor beneath his feet or the beat of his own heart.

“No,” Erik hears himself say as if from far away. He sounds taut and angry, bladed like the edge of the knife in his ankle sheath which has gone suddenly, perfectly sharp. “You manipulated me, Charles, and I won’t let you do it again!”

“Manipulated -- what are you talking about?” Charles’ lips are pulled back from his teeth in a wild snarl, stood confronting Erik as if he’s not half a head shorter and half Erik’s weight, as furious as a polecat confronting a fox; his voice is as raw as his wedding ring which is melting in the fire, not from the heat but from Erik’s wild Gift, the gold dripping into the flagstones. “You planned to use me from the day we married, Erik, don’t try and tar me with your brush.”

“Clearly your intentions were quite similar,” Erik snaps. “So I’m afraid I don’t see how you can complain.” The grate on the fireplace crumples in on itself, twists into an angry lump amidst the smouldering coals.

Charles’ sneer deepens into disgust. “Oh, yes -- I’m _‘manipulative, childish and a blackmailer’_ , how could I forget? And you plan to use me for my Gift, or use my children instead -- at least I planned to love our baby instead of breeding a weapon!”

Erik’s awareness snaps back to his own body so quickly it leaves him reeling, and the three metal balls in his pocket leap up into his hand, his fingers curling into a tight fist around them as if that will keep him steady, keep him from falling apart at the seams. He feels light-headed, breathless; Charles’ anger still saturates the room, stalking it like a trapped beast, the dragons’ powers doing nothing to dull it from lashing out at Erik’s mind. “What? What are you talking about? I never planned any such thing!”

“‘ _I’m not sure he himself would cooperate with our efforts, but yes. It is worth cultivating,’_ ” Charles spits at him mockingly, clearly quoting, but now that Erik is looking he can see that Charles’ face is an angry, blotchy red, his eyes wet and mouth stretched into a grimace. His chest is heaving. “ _’You have to trust me to be able to handle my own omega. I won’t let this situation get out of control.’_ ”

What -- when --

Erik has to scramble to remember when he said those words, turning conversations over in his mind, confused and lost, until -- _I heard what you said to Magda_ , Charles had told him. The pieces slide into perfect, horrible place.

“Charles -- “ Erik clenches his fist tighter, his stomach sinking, and forces the metal spheres to remain solid, pushing back against his skin with just as much resistance. “What else was I supposed to say to her? I barely knew you, and she would have killed you if I didn’t assuage her fears!”

“You could say anything you want to me and I have no way to know if it’s true,” Charles shouts, and his eyes screw shut, his body bowing forward, every muscle tense and showing taut under his skin. His voice cracks as he continues, “She believed you, and she’s known you forever -- I’d have to be an idiot to think I’m the one who knows the difference between you lying and you telling the truth. You love her. Stop treating me like an idiot!”

“I don’t _love_ her,” Erik says, feeling faintly dumbfounded at the suggestion that he might. “She -- look, Charles, you can’t go into one person’s mind and look at a situation and then think their assessment of it will be unbiased! I wasn’t lying when I said what I did to her. All I knew of you was that you felt compelled to blackmail me using knowledge of the fact that I was Frjáls, you yourself having no concept of what that even meant, beyond it being my strange term for what you thought was just -- some _barbarian_. And of course your trust was worth cultivating -- I couldn’t hope to achieve my goals if you didn’t cooperate. Was I certain you would not be an issue? No. Did I want to let Magda kill you because of that? Of course not!” The poker begins to melt as well, sinking down to join what is left of the fire grate. “If Magda thinks I’m in love with her, that’s her problem; it doesn’t make it _true._ ”

“You’ve known all along that I’m a telepath, and you never said anything!” Charles’ eyes are still closed, his breathing harsh and loud. “You’ve known all along that I couldn’t tell you in case you _had me killed_ , that it’s your duty to execute me, and yet you never told me -- you just set people to watch me, let me believe you didn’t know, when all along … ! Put those pieces together from my perspective, Erik -- what a way to get my cooperation, holding my life over my head until someday when you need it the most. How can I possibly believe you when you just tell me what I want to hear?”

“As far as I was concerned, that made us bloody _even_ ,” Erik growls. “Since you could turn me in for being a Northern _savage_ any time you damn well pleased. Perhaps you would have wanted to swing the ax yourself, instead of letting Shaw do it for you. You’ve always been the entrepreneur.” He rips his gaze away from Charles and opens his aching fist, letting the metal spheres rise up to orbit around his arm, spinning fast. “Or was that how you hoped to gain my allegiance, against Shaw? Play on my blood and hope I came quietly? Relive the tradition of your forebears?”

When Erik looks back Charles’ eyes are open, and the look he gives Erik then is both furious and wretched, his arms folding across his chest, more a self-hug than defiance.

“I told you I knew,” Charles says, quiet now, like he’s been suddenly drained of that violent emotion of a moment before. “I told you what I wanted -- to be treated fairly, like a human being. We made a deal, and I intended to keep to it. And you took that deal, knew what I wanted more than anything, and you pretended, for months, to be honest with me. And I began to be in love with you, or the you I thought I was married to, and all along you kept this from me. ‘Even’ is telling me you know, and being equals. Not whatever this is, waiting to hold this over me because you think we have to be ‘even’.”

He pauses then, and his mouth twists unhappily before he finally says, “Open the door, Erik.”

“No,” Erik says again, breathing fast and shallow, his pulse rattling in his veins. “No, I won’t open the door. You might be able to take from me everything I care about, but as long as I’m still alive, you won’t be able to walk away from this unless _I say so._ You’ve done enough damage.”

He turns his back to Charles, so Charles won’t see the sharpness pricking at his eyes. So Charles won’t know how Erik has unraveled.

“Is it so much,” he says at last, tight and strange, “for me to have wanted, in the end, you to trust me? For me to hope that one day you might tell me because you loved me? Because you knew I would love you all the more for it?” The metal balls stop spinning and drop to the ground, heavy, dead. They roll, somewhere; Erik detaches his mind from them and does not follow. Erik’s body feels weighted, already a corpse. “I never stopped being honest with you. You looked into someone else’s mind and took what you saw as truth. And then you locked yourself away from me, for so long that it was as if you’d died.” Erik inhales, breath catching in the back of his throat. “You don’t know what love is. If you ever felt it for me, you would not have broken me so willingly.”

“Fuck you, Erik,” Charles says, voice waterlogged, and Erik hears the sound of the mattress sagging under him as he sits down. “How dare you -- how can you say you love me all the more for it? As far as I’m concerned, you view my telepathy as something to use against me, not something to _love_.”

Erik flinches.

“I’m entirely in your power, and you know it,” Charles continues, relentlessly, despairingly. “Let me out of this damn room, or are you going to keep me captive here until I apologise for defending myself against you using more of myself against me?”

Erik doesn’t want to open the door. He doesn’t want to watch Charles leave him. _Again_ , something whispers in his mind. But it hurts almost as much to have Charles here, hating him from across the room, digging deeper into the raw wound of Erik’s feelings for him.

He doesn’t realise he’s made the decision until he feels the copper in the latch forming back to its usual state. Even then, it takes an extra effort for Erik to turn the knob with his Gift and throw the door open. To whisper: “So go.”

“Will you let me, if I try?”

Erik looks at Charles over his shoulder, and for once he doesn’t care if Charles sees the tear tracks on his face. He is already vulnerable. He can no longer summon his own pride, or dignity. “I won’t stop you.”

But Charles doesn’t even move, watching Erik from where he’s sat on the edge of their bed, fingers clutching the furs and face pale now, drawn, making his eyes look incredibly blue, ringed with red.

There’s a long, weighted silence between them then that draws on and on, just staring at one another, neither of them willing to move and break whatever unspoken truce is keeping their mouths shut. Erik’s throat feels raw from shouting, and he imagines Charles’ feels much the same, sat there in the sudden quiet waiting for everything to fall down around them.

It’s Charles who breaks the silence, his voice cracking. “You -- you like that I’m telepathic?”

“I like strong Gifts.”

“And, do you … ” Charles’ voice catches, his fists clenching tighter in the furs, but he forces out, finally, “Do you love Magda?”

“No,” Erik says, hoarse. His throat hurts. His bones hurt. “I love _you._ ”

“Why?”

It feels like Charles has raked hot coals over him. “What? So you can torture me some more?”

“No!” Charles says, red spots appearing high on his cheeks, and this time he’s the one who flinches. “Because -- because I want to believe you. I want to _know_. But I can never tell with you. You’re not -- not really _here_ , I have to imagine your emotions, and I thought -- I thought if you told me why, I could tell if you were lying.”

Of course, Erik think dully, as if through several layers of cotton fabric. Charles is probably used to relying on his telepathy for this kind of thing. With Erik’s mind sealed off to him, he has to use words and actions instead. Things that don’t come as naturally to him as they do to Erik.

Erik turns to face Charles more bluntly, peeled-open and naked-feeling. Exposed. “I’m not lying.” _I’m not you_ , some still-bitter part of him thinks. “I’m no diplomat, Charles. I couldn’t construct all of this for you out of whole cloth.”

Charles looks torn, biting his lip and tense all over. The sense of his anger in the room has died away, replaced by a tired, anxious feeling just as strong, clinging to Erik’s mind one minute then shying away the next. It’s like being blanketed in Charles’ emotions, the first true sense Erik has had in months of how Charles is feeling.

Erik drags his gaze from Charles’ face, feeling oddly as if he is intruding. After so long of Charles hiding from him, seeing Charles open himself up again makes Erik want to turn his face away with a strange sense of voyeurism and shame. Just to have something to do, he walks toward the dresser and starts unbuttoning his shirt at the collar; thankfully, his fingers don’t slip on the buttons.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he says after a while, the words half-murmured. Erik’s not sure if he’s really speaking them out loud, if he even should. “I’ll keep loving you either way.”

“How can I?” Charles shifts behind him as he asks the question, tortured inquiry thrumming through the emotional landscape around them. “You said it was true, when we first met. What you said to Magda. So. What changed your mind?”

Erik tugs his shirt off, his body creaking as if he’s spent the entire day embroiled in the worst sort of military training. He folds it even though it’ll just be washed tomorrow morning anyway and sets it aside. “I never said what I told her was true. I said I wasn’t lying. I said I told her what I had to. But not that it was true.”

“Some of it was,” Charles says quietly. “Wasn’t it? You didn’t like me. And that’s fine, you don’t have to, but … it’s the way you said it that sticks in my mind. ‘ _He’s manipulative, he’s childish, and he’s a blackmailer. What is there to like?_ ’” There’s a hitch in Charles’ breathing that cuts him off for a long moment, then a loud, thick swallowing sound, like he’s choking down his feelings. “ _’What’s there to like’_. The venom in your voice … you meant it. You meant it then, Erik.”

“Fair,” Erik admits, daring to glance back at Charles but then immediately regretting it; Charles looks small and self-loathing, his hand pressed hard against his eyes and hiding them while leaving the crumpled line of his mouth in full view, cheeks blotchy and red.

Erik cups his hands in the bowl of water atop the dresser and splashes it onto his face. He doesn’t expect the cold to help, and it doesn’t. But at least he doesn’t have to look at Charles, even if just for a moment.

“You _had_ blackmailed me. I was angry about that. And I felt very much manipulated because of it. You said all you wanted was your freedom, but I had no way of knowing that was where it would truly end. My life was in the hands of someone who had not, before that very day, known my people had a name for themselves other than ‘barbarian’ or ‘Snowlander’ or ‘savage.’ Hence: childish.”

Erik pauses, turning his memory of the event over in his mind a few times; he had not earmarked it in his memory as explicitly as Charles has. The details are muddled and run together.

“But the problem was that Magda was right, too,” he says. “I did like you. Despite all of that. Possibly because of it. And I was too proud to admit to her that I could admire any Southerner who had undermined me so effectively, so quickly. I was as angry with myself as I was with you.”

Charles’ voice is almost a whisper when he speaks, but Erik hears every word. “You frighten me,” Charles says, throaty and raw. “Why, how do I feel like this about you when you don’t even feel like a real person to me, when I don’t even _know_ you? Not like I should, like I understand everyone else?”

Erik’s heart stumbles in his chest. Even so, it takes conscious effort to make the first step toward Charles, and the second, the third, until he is kneeling on the floor at Charles’ feet, hands curling round Charles’ ankles, barely touching him, afraid Charles will flinch away. His gaze he keeps at the level of Charles’ knees, head tilted downward somewhat. “I can’t let you into my mind. I don’t have that power. You will have to know me from the things I say and do. But I mean it.”

Another, longer pause, in which the only sound is the driving wind outside and their breathing, slowing now and almost in time, inhaling and exhaling against the backdrop of the storm. Erik glances back up at Charles, about to speak again, when Charles interrupts.

“It’s so -- so _stupid_ , foolish, but ... even now, I want you to love me back,” Charles says, and his hands are still over his eyes, hiding his face. “Even though it hurts. I can’t help it. Please don’t use that against me.”

Erik’s chest tightens and for a brief second he isn’t sure he can breathe at all. Everything feels slippery and unsteady, as if this moment in time could fall too easily from his hands and disappear for good. His heart is racing, as if he were standing on a wire far above the ground, balancing against a storm. “I won’t,” Erik says, his throat dry as sandpaper, because it’s the only thing he can say that matters at all, grip tightening around Charles’ ankles.

“Swear it,” Charles says, lowering his hands at last. His gaze is red-rimmed but determined, though his mouth is still bitten and swollen-looking from his teeth.

“I swear.” Erik has made many false oaths in his time: to Shaw, loathing himself as he knelt and kissed the King’s boot, swearing fealty, Shaw’s fingers slim and paternalistic on the back of Erik’s head. But this isn’t one of them.

Charles heaves in a rough sob, and finally, slowly, he folds forward, his hands coming to rest on Erik’s shoulders as he lays his forehead against Erik’s.The round curve of his belly forces his thighs to part so he can bend enough, but then he is warm, and close, his hitching breath gusting against Erik’s face. “All right,” Charles says, fingers curling over Erik’s bare skin. “All right.”

Erik’s hands slip up the backs of Charles’ legs to rest on Charles’ upper arms instead, almost but not-quite holding him there, his stomach turning every time he thinks about Charles pulling away. “Don’t take this from me again,” he whispers, and he feels bloody and flayed when he says it, half-begging, embarrassed that this is all he has left to offer Charles, messy and tattered. “I -- Charles, I can’t do that again. Please.”

“You still …” Charles trails off, then continues, stronger, “You met with Magda, that day, as soon as I left the castle. And I know you two used to have sex. Do you still? Since you married me?”

“No. There’s only been you. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

“Even though I’m not Frjáls?”

“That has had surprisingly little to do with how I feel about you.”

Charles sags further, his hands slipping further over Erik’s shoulders until they’re draped behind his neck, resting loosely over his nape. Then, after a moment: “Could you come up here? My back is killing me.”

Erik pulls himself slowly to standing, then settles down next to Charles on Charles’ side of the bed, bracing himself on his hands spread against the furs, his thigh touching Charles’ knee. “Better?” The sense of Charles around them is tired now, dying away as Charles calms.

“I just need to lie down,” Charles says, and he sounds tired, too, enough that Erik isn’t surprised when Charles slowly lowers himself down onto his back on the bed, then rolls onto his side, folding his arm under his head to cushion it. “Gods, Erik. I just -- I can’t talk about this any more tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Erik’s exhausted as well; the prospect of going through all of this again, even calmly, is a daunting one. His mind is strung out and unlaced; he can’t summon the energy to knit it back together again.

“Yes, please.” Charles reaches for the edge of his own shirt and pulls it off over his head, then tosses it over the edge of the bed. The hem of his breeches sits so low under his bump that it’s a wonder they sit on his hips at all. He starts unlacing them without so much as sitting up, as if he’s as tired as Erik feels.

Erik stands, crossing to the other side of the bed before stripping off his trousers and reaching for the candle clock, pinching its flame out between his thumb and forefinger. His Gift catches on all the bits of metal he’s accidentally torqued or melted but for now he lets them be, slipping in between the furs and lying down on his back, limbs heavy.

He’s almost asleep by the time that Charles shifts, settles, shifts again, then slides over to rest his head tentatively on Erik’s shoulder, laying his arm across Erik’s chest, the firm, naked swell of his belly pressing into Erik’s side.

A moment later Erik turns as well, rolling to face Charles, their heads on the same pillow and Erik’s hand slipping round the back of Charles’ thigh. His skin is warm and smooth; for all the times Erik has touched Charles in the past several months he’s always managed to block this out somehow.

In the dark all Erik can hear is the change in Charles’ breathing, then the brush of his hair against linen as Charles leans forward to kiss him, missing at first and finding Erik’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth, then his mouth entire. Charles’ kiss is a question, his lips parted, opening to Erik, then gentling, barely a kiss at all, just mouth touching to mouth, close and strange.

They stay like that for a while, sharing breath until, at some point, they fall asleep.

 

~*~

 

_Charles_

In the morning the room is quiet and still, the storm of the night before passed over and gone. Even the ever-present winter wind has died down, not whipping around Ironhold’s many corners but still and silent instead. In the darkness of their bedroom Charles lies half-waking, curled up against his husband with his head tucked under Erik’s chin and their legs tangled, Erik’s palm resting on Charles’ swollen belly.

It’s warm, and comfortable, feeling Erik’s lungs expand and contract against him where they’re snugged together, and being held tighter whenever he shifts, as though even in his sleep Erik cannot bear to let him go. Charles doesn’t open his eyes, just moves closer, listening to Erik’s heartbeat, slow and steady. If Erik is to be believed, that beat belongs to Charles, and Charles alone.

The way Erik had talked -- it’s hard not to believe that it’s true, and Charles … it’s foolish to believe Erik. To trust that he means what he says, that he loves Charles. Wants him. It’s stupid, because other than the sincerity in Erik’s fury and despair last night Charles has no reason to believe him at all -- no new means of proving it, one way or the other.

And yet … when Erik said he loved him last night, begged him not to retreat again, Charles’ bruised heart sang.

He reaches out with his mind for the time and finds that the cooks are awake and making breakfast, chatting cheerily to one another as they knead the day’s bread and stir porridge, tending the meat and frying eggs. It’s around the sixth hour, by Breda’s count, and so Charles pulls back his awareness into his physical body, slowly untangling his legs from Erik’s so that he can stretch, ready to get up.

Erik shifts when Charles moves, a line creasing his brow before he opens his eyes, hand falling from Charles’ side to curl between them. He doesn’t say anything, just watches Charles almost guardedly.

“Morning,” Charles says tentatively, once he’s relaxed from the delicious tension of stretching, skin prickling all over with the blood rushing back into his arms and legs.

Erik murmurs the greeting back, pushing himself up and leaning against the headboard of the bed, the tips of his fingers coming to rest hesitantly on Charles’ head, slipping in between the curls of his hair. The gesture is both familiar and unfamiliar, after so long; Charles’ scalp is sensitive, and when Erik’s touch rubs down over it Charles sighs, pleasurable tingling running across his head, behind his ears and down the back of his neck.

Despite everything that’s happened, Charles could lay here and let Erik stroke his head all day, if there was nothing else more pressing to do -- but there is, and so after a rather longer minute than he intended to indulge in he makes himself sit up, too. Erik’s hand slips from his hair as Charles pushes with his feet against the mattress, levering himself up until he can lean his own back against the headboard, rearranging the pillows around himself for support.

“So,” Charles says once he’s upright, and makes his voice both firmer and more confident than he feels inside. “We need to finish our discussion from last night.”

“All right,” Erik says. He draws his hand back into his lap and tilts his head slightly toward Charles; there are still dark circles beneath his eyes, but he doesn’t look nearly as exhausted as he had by the end of the night before.

Charles clears his throat, centering himself and his thoughts. “Yes. Okay. To summarise, then: we are both aware that I am telepathic, and that I and my sister along with other young nobles have been working to undermine the King’s power for some time now, using economic and political strategies. I have been trying to ensure that Shaw has as few soldiers as possible when it comes to his next conflict, which seems certain to be with the Svarti.”

When he pauses, Erik merely gestures for Charles to continue.

“You, on the other hand, have been preparing to fight a civil war with Shaw once you felt you were ready, and so have been training your army and building up supplies to do so. This has also meant you making an alliance with Ororo of the Southern Islands to attack Shaw together when the time is ripe, preferably after the war with the Svarti when he is at his weakest, and manipulated by you into doing very poorly during that war and losing most of his men. Is that more or less it?”

“More or less,” Erik says. “I think our best chance of success lies with taking advantage of each others’ resources. If you hope to convince me this can be resolved without bloodshed, I can tell you now you won’t be successful.” Erik says it so bluntly, so matter-of-factly, that it’s almost incongruous with the reaction he’d had the night before.

It’s so -- outlandish, surreal, to be sat here naked in their bed together, discussing politics and war so openly, Charles thinks, especially after so long not speaking of anything of substance at all. Especially after so vicious an argument about it, when Charles hadn’t been certain Erik wouldn’t lash out at him, he was so angry.

“Of course it won’t be bloodless,” Charles says, waving one hand to dismiss the idea. “There will always need to be bloodshed when Shaw is involved. He’s a vicious, psychotic brute who will need to be put down before he would ever step down. I’m not naïve. But I do think it’s important to limit the collateral damage, if we’re to keep the kingdom together. There’s nothing like civil war to encourage your neighbours to move in, and besides, if Raven is to be Queen then I want her to have a kingdom still mostly intact.”

Erik glances sidelong at Charles, one brow lifting. “That’s the first I’ve heard of this proposition,” he says. “I’m sure you know my opinion on the subject already, if you’ve been listening in on Ororo.”

This is the point Charles had expected to be most difficult, but he’s not willing to back down on it, no matter how Erik kicks and screams. “I did mention it last night,” he says, keeping his voice calm and measured. “Raven and I are the King’s closest living relatives, being his second cousins; Raven is next in line to the throne. Quite aside from the fact that the Kingdom would rise up against any invading army from the North if they thought you were looking to take over, the throne is Raven’s by right of birth.”

“Just as the Frjáls throne is mine,” Erik says. “No matter who your sister is, I will not suffer the North to live under Southern rule any longer. Not Shaw’s, not Raven’s.”

What? Charles frowns, caught off guard. “What throne? To my knowledge the North was fairly tribal before Shaw invaded.”

“To your knowledge, we’re all savages, too. I’m afraid your knowledge is several generations out of date.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“The North is comprised of two races,” Erik says, turning onto his hip so he’s facing Charles more fully, the furs shifting across Charles’ thighs as they’re pulled towards Erik. “The Frjáls, for whom these are our ancestral homelands, and Southerners who have lived peacefully on these lands alongside us for so long that we consider them equally Northern. Different religion, different culture, but the lines between us have blurred over the years. Southern blood, perhaps, but the North was their nation, and they pledged fealty to Frjáls Kings and Queens, not to the throne in Hammer Bay. Our system of nobility was … not like yours. There were the monarchs, but everyone else was not stratified into classes like Dukes and marquis, and so on. The closest thing to a Duke would be, perhaps, a religious leader or an exceptional General. Nothing to do with one’s birth.”

Charles is already processing this information, trying to slot it into place with everything else he’s learned since he arrived in the North. “And you’re the King.” It puts an entirely new spin on things, and Charles frowns in furious thought, folding his arms across his bump as he thinks this through. “Wait. Your father was General Lehnsherr, he was a _Southern_ General. How can you be the _Frjals_ people’s King?”

“Ah, yes,” Erik says, smiling slightly. “I forgot to mention. Frjáls blood is passed matrilineally. My mother was Frjáls, therefore so am I. And because my mother’s omega father was King, she was his successor, and I am my mother’s. Understand?”

“Not particularly,” Charles says, still frowning. “Since surely, if your mother was the princess, she would have been killed along with the rest of the Frjáls?”

“She would have, yes, if she hadn’t married my father. That was the only thing that has kept the royal bloodline alive. She was fortunate he wasn’t cruel, though I don’t think she ever learned to love him, or stopped resenting him for the things he did under Shaw’s rule.”

“Your father knew, and didn’t have her killed?” Charles asks, eyebrows rising, feeling almost shocked - it would have been a major break in decorum, let alone in obedience to the King’s will. “I assume Shaw didn’t, then?”

Erik nods. “He loved _her_ , regardless of how she may have felt about him. He was … a complicated man.”

Charles isn’t sure what to think now, stunned past disbelief. He shakes his head ruefully. “This _is_ a tangle. On the positive side, I should write to my mother. She was so disappointed that I couldn’t marry our King. She’ll be thrilled.”

Erik laughs. “Not for long.”

“Because?”

“The obvious reason, what do you expect?”

“Oh, because you’re Frjáls?” Charles asks, and Erik nods. “That wouldn’t bother Mother at all. Provided you had a crown and a throne and could get me with child she couldn’t care less if you had no limbs or even a head to put the crown on.”

“In that case, you’ve married very well indeed. A would-be King, in his would-be country.” Erik sounds bitter.

“Look,” Charles says, becoming serious again now and placing his hand over Erik’s where it’s resting on the bed. “For the time being let’s shelve the issue of who will rule where, and concentrate on having the option, first. Agreed?”

“Then what do you propose? You want to weaken Shaw’s lines to resources and younger nobility, but what about the old guard? You can’t ask the Islanders to wait longer than the duration of this thing with the Svarti.” Erik squeezes Charles’ hand once before he draws away, swinging his legs out of bed and standing, picking last night’s trousers up off the floor and folding them over his arm.

Charles studies the line of Erik’s back, noting how tight the muscles are, drawn up and together between Erik’s shoulder blades, even the muscles of his buttocks taut with unspoken tension. “Shall we move to my sitting room?” he suggests, shifting towards the same side of the bed and sliding out after Erik, standing awkwardly behind him. “We might do better with some breakfast, as well.”

“If you like.” Erik picks up Charles’ old clothes as well, folding them together with his own and stacking them by the door. The brass knobs on the dresser are shapeless blobs, destroyed last night by Erik’s Gift, but the drawers open with Erik’s power as smoothly as if they’d been oiled and Erik hands Charles a shirt, some underwear and pair of trousers before starting to dress himself.

By the time they reach the sitting room the castle is bustling with everyday activity, utterly out of step with the upheaval of its Duke’s relationship with his consort. It seems ludicrous to be in Charles’ own small, comfortable space, where they have always sat and ignored one another, debating how to take down the King.

“You asked what I plan to do about the old guard,” Charles says once they’ve settled and the maid who brought their breakfast has gone, shutting the door behind herself. “It boils down to this: their heirs tell the old guard what I tell them to say, and what I have to say makes sense. Some will stay with the King, of course, but if enough of them waver … that’s what I’m working towards.”

“It rests on a lot of suppositions,” Erik says, peeling the shell off his egg. “I doubt very many, if any, of your old guard will change their minds because their heirs are off on some fanciful rebellious notion. They will cling to safety. That is the benefit of youth: you have very little to lose. An alpha of sixty, or even fifty, has built their life around certain ideals. They will not give them up.”

“That’s fair,” Charles says, taking a sip of his tisane. “I had intended to play a longer game than this, in which case many of the young nobles would have taken over their parents’ titles.”

“I think we should begin with the assumption, then, that we’re _not_ playing a long game. We’re playing a very short one. If a plan is contingent upon long game results, we can dismiss it.”

Charles swallows his spoonful of porridge and nods. “Agreed. On which note, many of those who are involved with Raven and I are in high positions in Shaw’s military. If and when a war is called, they’ll be on the front lines and in command.”

“Which is useful, if their troops do not rebel against them,” Erik says, sprinkling salt onto his egg. “They won’t do much good where they are. What can they promise their footsoldiers, but a death without honour?”

“They can get them out of the way when the time comes to attack Shaw head on. All it takes is one false order at the right time, and they can clear a path. Sometimes that’s all you need.”

Erik is quiet for a moment, chewing a bite of his egg, and then, at last, he nods. “How much can you deteriorate the Capital’s access to resources and supplies over the next -- let’s say, conservatively, ten months?”

“How long do you think it will be until the war begins?”

“It depends,” Erik says, setting down his spoon. “Shaw will wait for the Svarti to make the first move, so it’s primarily a matter of their patience. As much as I have tried to stay in contact, through certain proxies, with the Svarti leaders, my opinion has relatively little clout when it comes to that matter. I would say ‘soon,’ but we’ve been saying that for a while. I’d half-wonder if this wasn’t a figment of Shaw’s imagination, were it not for the trade barricades.”

“Then, to answer your question, I would estimate that we can reduce supplies by as much as twenty to twenty-five percent,” Charles says, speaking between mouthfuls of porridge. “Westchester is the main trade hub of that part of the South. If supplies through there are attacked by Svarti raiding groups, for example, there would be very little the King could do so far away on the border, and Westchester has no military power to prevent it.”

“Good time to be a peace-loving duchy,” Erik says, lips quirking a little. “Will the Markos pose an issue?”

“With any luck the Svarti will kill them both if they try,” Charles mutters into his tisane.

“Then let’s hope they do try.” Erik’s grin has turned into a full smirk by the time he’s lifting his toast to his mouth.

Charles smiles back, and it’s both easier and harder than he thought it would be -- to be normal with Erik again, to talk as if they’re happy together. When Erik says nothing further Charles turns his attention fully to his breakfast, one hand resting on his stomach and wincing when the baby kicks him, its one-track, silver fish of a mind all filled with an urgency to move and be active.

Erik glances at him. “Is everything all right?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine. I’m used to it by now,” Charles says, gesturing at his body. “The baby is brutalising my internal organs, is all.”

Erik sets down his teacup and reaches over without asking this time, resting his hand on the upper curve of Charles’ stomach, where Charles’ hand had been a moment before. He smiles. “How strange it must be,” he says. “Having a life inside you.”

“I can feel it thinking,” Charles confesses. It’s a relief to say it finally to someone, to share, even if it is with someone he’s not yet sure he can trust with his honesty. “It can hear sounds, and voices, and it thinks and feels -- a very little, very simply. Not enough to understand to leave my bladder well alone.”

“What does it think?” Erik’s gaze is riveted on Charles’ stomach, his hand pressing down just a little more firmly.

“It wants to stretch, mostly.” Charles’ voice gentles, smiling again as he turns his mind inwards. “Sometimes it wants to sleep. It wonders about the things it hears. It can hear you speaking; it recognises your voice, and mine.”

“Oh,” Erik says softly. His hand lingers a while on Charles’ stomach even if his expression has gone somewhat strange and artificial before he draws away.

Charles isn’t sure what to do. He’s so used to holding himself in and away from Erik that reaching out feels all but impossible, yet at the same time --

\-- given what Erik said last night, regardless of the fact that Charles doesn’t feel he was wrong to react the way he did to reading Magda’s memories, Charles had believed that Erik was some kind of manipulative monster for the past _four months_ , and now Erik knows it, is waiting for Charles to withdraw from him again, was hurt deeply by Charles’ withdrawal.

Reaching out is hard. Not doing so, just as hard.

He looks down at his empty bowl and wonders what he can possibly say to Erik now that won’t seem entirely disingenuous.

Erik finishes eating his breakfast slowly, picking at his food before he actually consumes it, but he eats every bit of it nonetheless. “We should meet with Ororo and Armando,” he says when he’s finally done, setting his knife aside. “They’ll need to be updated. If we have a resolution, that is.”

“Erik … why do you love me?” Charles asks suddenly, looking up at Erik almost before he realises he’s spoken, the words falling off his tongue before he can stop them. “I just -- no, I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. Never mind.” Charles gets to his feet, all the blood in his body surely in his face and turning him bright scarlet.

Erik’s hand catches his wrist before he can go far, though. “It’s fine,” he says. “You asked me last night and I never really answered you.”

“It’s -- you don’t have to,” Charles says, awkward and biting his lower lip. Now that he’s asked he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer, not knowing whether he’ll be glad of it or not, after.

“The only way you’ll know for sure if I’m lying or not, right?” Erik says, one brow lifting. “I told you, it’s fine.” He pushes his chair back and stands, releasing Charles’ wrist to settle that hand on Charles’ shoulder instead, at the base of his neck. His gaze doesn’t waver from Charles’, cool and assessing. “To be honest, I’m not sure why anyone loves anyone. There are reasons I like you -- you’re smart, and bold, and opinionated. But there are plenty of people with those qualities whom I don’t love. I think … perhaps it’s the way you feel, around that person. The way I feel around you. It’s hating when you’re unhappy, and wanting to be near you, and feeling your absence when you’re gone. It’s caring so much about you that you become a part of myself, a part of myself that I love _more_ than myself. I want you constantly, in every way, and I didn’t realise it -- not truly -- until I didn’t have you anymore.”

“Oh,” Charles says, too surprised to know what to say, or think -- but there’s a rising warmth inside of him, and before he even thinks about it he tugs Erik down and kisses him. Erik’s hands are instantly on Charles’ hips, pressing them closer and Charles makes a sound in his throat, longing thrumming through every part of his body and communicating through his mouth on Erik’s, lips parted and stroking Erik’s tongue with his own.

Erik’s hands slide up Charles’ sides and spread at his waist, smoothing against his body through the folds of his clothes. Erik’s mouth still tastes like salt from his breakfast, and he touches Charles with far less hesitancy than he had before, as if reclaiming him, tangling one hand in Charles’ hair to keep him from pulling away and kissing the curve of his ear. It’s a clinging, wanting, yearning feeling, like everything Charles has repressed for the past four months has come bubbling up all at once.

“I hated it,” Charles admits into Erik’s ear, his own hands all over Erik’s back, spanning out the lean muscle of his body and clutching him tightly, though his bump gets in the way. “I hated it when I thought … when I had to pull away from you.” He presses his nose to the angle between Erik’s neck and shoulder and inhales deeply, breathing in that familiar, comforting alpha scent. “I didn’t realise it could be that painful.”

Erik’s touch presses down, past Charles’ hips, over the curve of his ass. “Don’t ever … don’t ever leave me again.” It’s half-growled and half-an-order, Erik’s teeth catching Charles’ skin, sharp and possessive.

A small part of Charles wants to be rational, to tell himself that he has to be careful, that he can’t just believe Erik. But his toes are curling with pleasure-pain when Erik bites him, head tipping back and body leaning into Erik’s grip, wanting to be closer. “I won’t,” he says, knowing even as he says it that it can’t be a promise, that if he has good enough reason he’ll tear his own heart out all over again if he has to. “I won’t.”

Erik pushes him back until Charles’ spine meets the hard block of a wall, pinning him there with his body and his hands and his mouth on Charles’ throat, and this is nothing like the reluctant touches Erik had spared Charles when they were together even just two days ago. It’s fresh and desperate and _wanting_ , Erik’s cock hardening against Charles’ stomach. Charles lets Erik hold him there without fighting it, eyes slipping closed and hands relaxing where Erik has his wrists pinned.

The arousal that thrums through him is nothing like the urgency of their recent encounters, driven by maddening necessity; this is deeper, Charles’ body responding sweet and slow, his own cock filling between his thighs even as he starts to get slick inside, his hole clenching in anticipation. “I want you,” Charles says, sucking in a gasp when Erik’s teeth press harder against his skin.

Erik’s fingers tighten slightly at Charles’ wrists and his mouth goes, briefly, slack against his neck. There’s something almost delicate, then, about the way Erik trails his touch down one of Charles’ forearms, light enough that it almost tickles, skimming past his elbow and then skipping to slip into his hair as Erik kisses him again on the mouth, hard but not harsh, hand curving around the nape of Charles’ neck.

With his hand freed Charles can reach forward to pet Erik’s chest between them, stroking his hand down the hard planes of Erik’s pectorals, his abdomen, long caresses that end in him working his hand under the hem of Erik’s shirt and resting it on the bared skin at his waist, stroking his side. Erik’s lips are parted, his tongue tracing the line of Charles’ teeth before dipping inside, and Charles moans, quietly breathless.

“I’ve missed this,” Erik says, tilting his head to kiss Charles’ cheek, his temple. His fingers are curling in Charles’ hair, short nails almost-catching on Charles’ scalp.

“Me too.” Charles tugs on his other wrist until Erik releases it and he can place it on the other side of Erik’s narrow waist, his thumbs slipping just under Erik’s waistband to rest in the ridiculous, gorgeous groove between the muscles that lead to Erik’s groin. “Just … intimacy.”

He can feel Erik’s lips stretching into a smile against his skin before Erik leans back to look at him again, letting his free hand rest on the swell of Charles’ stomach, smoothing small circles above Charles’ navel. “We should go to our room,” he says. “There are people in the hall. Someone could come in.”

Charles can’t quite fathom how they’ve reached this point from where they were last night, from screaming at one another to sneaking back to their rooms mid-morning to have sex. But … it feels good, for Erik to want him without Charles having to goad him, to want _Erik_ as much as he wants to be fucked. “Okay,” he says quietly, almost afraid to trust the feeling but smiling back anyway.

He steps away from the wall, into Erik’s space, before moving around him, towards the door. When he reaches for the handle he reaches back with his free hand, not looking in case Erik doesn’t take it, but offering, anyway, to hold it. “Come on.”

Erik’s warm fingers slip into his a moment later, though, clasping their hands together as if this weren’t something foreign to the both of them, a casual closeness that they haven’t explored for months. It makes something inside of Charles clench, in a good way, and he ducks his head as he opens the door, hiding his expression.

Outside the door is Ororo, her own hand raised to knock, and when Charles looks up at her, startled, she looks the way he feels, taken aback by being suddenly face-to-face.

“Oh!” She lets her hand drop awkwardly, then steps back enough to give them both a brief bow, more formal than she’s been since she arrived. Armando is stood behind her, and he shoots Charles an apologetic thought, glancing past his sister and past Charles at Erik stood close behind him. The surprise that rings in Armando’s mind when he sees their joined hands is enough to make Charles’ grip loosen.

“Hello, Ororo,” Erik says, and he doesn’t let go of Charles’ hand; if anything his grip tightens slightly. “Please, enter.”

“Apologies if we’re intruding,” she says, but once Charles and Erik are out of the doorway she comes into the sitting room with easy confidence, regained after her shock; when Charles offers her a chair Ororo sits, crossing her legs and settling her hands loosely on her knee. Armando sits beside her, thinking a question at Charles that he acknowledges with an affirmation.

Charles is torn between embarrassment and frustration, his half-hard cock throbbing in his trousers as he sits. His body is demanding more, to be touched by Erik, and so he holds himself stiffly, trying not to give away his state of interrupted arousal.

“Armando has told me about his own dealings with you, Charles, and your sister,” Ororo says bluntly, her gaze firm and fixed on Charles. “I’m assuming you’ve had a conversation with Erik about this, now?”

“Yes,” Erik says, sitting down across from them, legs in a wide, easy posture, somehow managing to look completely unruffled, that bastard, even while Charles is sure his own cheeks are still flushed and pink. “It seems we’ve been working at cross purposes for a while now.”

“Until now it wasn’t necessary or safe to share mine and Raven’s plans with anyone not directly involved.” Charles tries to sound as calm as Erik does, and feels that he succeeds in that at least. “Even with my husband. Last night it became necessary. Erik and I have talked through our plans and we think we can work to achieve both goals, together.”

“I’m sure Armando has filled you in, but you can’t deny that it would be useful, to use their resources to weaken Shaw’s power further before we invade,” Erik says, his gaze resting on Ororo’s. “We don’t need a prolonged civil war; we can crush them under our heel as the battle has barely even begun.”

Ororo glances between them, her mind all calculations and pragmatism. “Agreed,” she says eventually, when she’s decided that they seem to be in sync with one another now, at least. “Armando has told me a lot about what Raven of Westchester has been doing in the capital with the other young ones, and it sounds as though it could be very useful to ending things quickly. I propose that Armando be our main connection to the group; Charles is soon to be busy with your firstborn, and letters take a long time to reach you here in the North. We have Gifted couriers in the Islands who are far faster than the usual mail routes, if we need to contact you, Erik, before Shaw calls you south.”

“Which reminds me,” Erik says, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and pulling out a sheaf of parchment, stamped with the red wax seal of his House. “I have a letter here to the Svarti Queen; you mentioned you could deliver it for me directly.”

Charles frowns -- it’s the first he’s heard of any letter. “Does it take into account the change in our plans?”

“It says nothing that would need to be changed to account for them,” Erik says. “A notification of our intention to pursue war with Shaw, is all, in addition to a promise that we will, to the best of our abilities, aid the Svarti troops during the major battles. They know well enough Shaw needs to be stopped, and that turning him on us only means delaying the inevitable; they won’t betray us.”

Reassured, Charles nods, and Armando takes the letter, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jerkin. “I’ll keep this safe,” he says, flattening his palm over his breast and holding the letter to his heart. “Charles, did you still want to give me the instructions for Raven … verbally, or by letter, now?”

“Verbally is still safer,” Charles says, grateful that Armando has clearly kept his telepathy from Ororo as requested. No need to risk any more than he already has. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his stomach. “If Shaw intercepts Erik’s letter, it’s only ourselves we risk; if he intercepted mine, there would be a lot of lives in danger. Best if it’s kept in your head.”

Erik shoots Charles a sidelong look -- he’s not stupid, so almost certainly he’s picked up on the subtext of that conversation. “As long as Emma Frost doesn’t pluck it out of his head,” he says, drawing his gaze away from Charles. “Be careful, Armando. Stay away from her.”

“Quite right,” Charles murmurs, but to Armando he says silently, _I can protect them from her when I place the instructions in your head; just don’t give her a reason to go looking._

“If that is all that must be discussed, then we shouldn’t linger,” Ororo says, rising from her chair. “The sooner I can get to Svartiland, and Armando to court, the more quickly we can set our pieces in motion before war is declared.”

Charles looks towards the shuttered window, listening for the telltale sound of the rising weather. “If you go to the kitchens they will provide provisions,” he says, distracted and suddenly fretful, unsettled and aroused all at once by the thought of being alone with Erik again, once they’ve gone -- everything is moving so quickly. “Armando, I still need to give you your instructions.”

“Sis, why don’t you go get the supplies while I fetch our baggage?” Armando suggests to Ororo, then looks back at Charles questioningly. “Can you tell me in our rooms while I get everything together?”

“Of course,” Charles says, smiling politely as he stands up from his chair.

“I’ll accompany Ororo,” Erik says, touching Charles’ elbow for a moment before stepping away. “We can meet downstairs when you’re finished.”

Charles smiles as easily as he can, and follows Armando from the room, but even he’s not sure if it’s frustration or relief he feels when he leaves Erik to do what they must.

 

~*~

 

_Erik_

They see Ororo and Darwin off the same way they saw them arrive: flying through a split in the stormclouds, a rift generated with Ororo’s power that should render them completely invisible to any unfriendly eyes. The blizzard closes again behind them and with it goes the only glimpse of sunlight Ironhold has seen in days, the silence of dark and snow settling over the castle once more.

It’s barely past midday but with their visitors gone it feels as if it could just as easily be night. How strange, to realise that less than a day ago, their lives had been so very different. Not a pleasant different, but at least Erik had his script to follow, and it entailed avoiding Charles whenever possible. Now that choice of action is no longer reliable, and Erik finds he doesn’t quite know what to do instead. He and Charles have nearly become strangers, and yet Erik feels closer to him than ever before. Erik finds his mind trying to shy away from the contrast, as human minds do from all unnatural things.

“So,” he says at last, when the silence stretches too thin. “Shall we … return upstairs?”

Charles looks sidelong at Erik, and pauses for a moment before he answers, as if he, too, is trying to decide what to say. “All right,” he says, and haltingly offers Erik his hand. It doesn’t feel as easy as it did before, walking with their fingers clasped together, but Erik tells himself he’ll grow accustomed soon enough.

They have to take the steps to their bedroom more slowly than usual now; Charles’ pregnancy tires him out quickly, and Erik finds himself pausing every other floor or so to let Charles catch his breath. It’s an excuse not to have to come up with a topic of conversation, at least; Charles is too short-winded to answer. When they finally reach the top floor and their rooms Charles is flushed and pink, panting a little, and it’s -- not unattractive, to Erik.

“So,” Charles says, once Erik has shut the door behind them, his eyes flickering down for a moment before he swallows and looks up at Erik again.

“You should sit down,” Erik says, glancing pointedly at the bed and dragging the ruined fire grate out of the way with his Gift and finding the box of tinder above the hearth, kneeling to try and strike a fire in the cold coals. Charles’ wedding ring is there, still: melted gold against the stones, smudged black. Erik’s power catches it as well, siphoning it up into the pocket of his trousers.

Erik tosses a few more faggots into the coal heap and tries again. This time, a spark catches and begins to burn, no larger than a candle flame for now, though that will change soon enough.

When he turns back to face Charles his husband is sat on the end of their bed, watching him. “...Come here,” Charles says, quietly, and toes off his boots, shuffling back on the mattress until he can lie down with his head on his pillow, hands folded loosely over his breast.

Erik sits, and a moment later he finally shifts to lie down next to Charles, head propped up on one hand, the other resting with just his fingertips touching the rise of Charles’ belly, taut and round.

Charles looks down at Erik’s hand, and he moves his own to cover it, pressing the contact down more firmly until Erik’s palm is cupping the curve of his stomach. “I think you like it.”

Erik’s eyes flick up to Charles’. “Like what? You being pregnant? Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous.” He pushes himself up to press his lips to Charles’ stomach, a few inches from their hands. “I’ll be happy for you to stop being pregnant as well, though.” He can’t stop thinking about what Charles said, about feeling their child’s mind inside him. Erik wants to see their baby for himself, to hold it and feel the reality of it the way Charles has. There was some part of him, before, that had been so certain that when the baby was born Charles would hide it away from him the way he had hidden himself, such that the child grew distant from him, Erik nothing but a tall shadow on the fringes of its life.

“Mmm.” Charles’ hum vibrates through his body, quivers against Erik’s lips. “I think you like it, though. Seeing me being pregnant with your child. There’s a … I’ve spent a lot of time, trying to interpret your facial expressions. There’s this expression you wear for it, like…” he trails off, thoughtful. “Pleased. Possessive. Even when…. Well.”

“I _am_ pleased,” Erik says, settling back down on the bed. “And if I’m possessive, it’s only because it’s _my_ baby, just as you’re _my_ husband. Some things never change.”

Charles turns onto his side facing Erik, knees crooked and his arm folded under his head to support it; his hair is a dark halo against the pillow, his gaze measuring as he looks back at Erik. “You’re mine, too,” he says. “I didn’t say it was a problem.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Erik’s mouth. “Say that again.”

“Even when you make me crazy, you’re mine, too,” Charles says, and Erik kisses him before he can quite finish the last syllable, still grinning.

Charles’ mouth is open on the ‘oo’ of ‘too’, and Erik catches Charles’ lower lip with his teeth, tugging on it before moving up to kiss him properly, meeting Charles’ tongue with his own; Charles moans, his hands coming up to take hold of Erik’s jerkin and pull him closer, one then sliding into Erik’s hair to hold him there. Kissing Charles still comes easily, at least. Erik knows his mouth, and he knows the way Charles will make a sound and Erik will feel a shiver at the base of his spine. Almost on instinct, Erik reaches out with his Gift to feel the heat of Charles’ skin against his wedding ring -- only of course, nothing’s there. Erik just kisses him harder, Gift finding Charles’ buttons instead and pushing them out of their loops, baring flesh for his hands to spread against.

The fingers in Erik’s hair curl against his head and Charles makes this little growling noise, pressing forward into the kiss and shivering a little from the chill air, his nipples tightening under Erik’s fingertips into sweet, hard little nubs. When Erik rubs over them with his thumbs, rolling circles over them, Charles gasps and bites him, teeth nipping Erik’s bottom lip.

Erik pushes Charles’ shirt past his shoulders and off, sinking both hands into Charles’ hair as Charles pushes him onto his back and straddles him, undoing Erik’s buttons with practised speed. Erik hadn’t noticed how hard he’s gotten until Charles’ weight is pressing down against his hips; Erik tries to swallow his moan and doesn’t entirely succeed.

“Can you … ” Charles’ voice is throaty when he pulls back enough to speak, his eyes closed, lashes resting on his cheeks. “Keep touching my nipples, please? It feels good.” He smells like arousal, like pregnancy and slick need, and when he rocks forward in Erik’s lap Charles moans again, elbows locked where he’s resting his hands on Erik’s chest, bracing himself to arch into the touch as Erik obeys.

It’s been so long since Erik’s been able to see him -- truly see him, with firelight glowing on his body, half-nude and exposed. Before, their couplings had been swollen with shame and a sense of obligation, the deep of night a welcome veil over each other’s bodies and faces, Erik fucking Charles from behind with his face turned away, wishing he could at least pretend Charles still cared about him.

Now they’re face to face, and Erik can see Charles’ eyes drift open again, blue and with dilated pupils; can see the ripened curve of his stomach and the freckles scattered across his shoulders like Southern spices. Charles just looks at him for a long few silent seconds, his expression a strange mix of hesitation and urgent want, before he gets up onto his knees and starts moving backward down Erik’s legs, his hands trailing down Erik’s chest until he reaches the fastening of Erik’s trousers and can start unbuttoning them. “Take your shirt off?”

Erik sits up enough to oblige as Charles’ fingers work, and once it’s off and Charles has finished with Erik’s fly his fingers pause on the triangle of skin revealed there, resting just over the trail of hair that leads down from his bellybutton -- but then Charles tugs at Erik’s waistband and pulls them down his thighs along with his underwear, exposing his hard cock to the cool bedroom air.

Erik manages to toe his boots off a second before Charles is tugging his trousers past his ankles and letting them fall off the edge of the bed. His lungs don’t feel large enough to hold each breath; he’s dizzy when Charles touches him, familiar fingers closing around his shaft and dragging up, and if all Erik’s attention wasn’t already focused on Charles it certainly is now.

It feels quite strange to be lying here naked while Charles is still half-dressed, sat over Erik’s calves as he pauses for a moment to spit on his hand before going back to stroking up and down Erik’s cock, grip firm and squeezing. Charles’ eyes are entirely focused on his own hand, the thick, engorged head of Erik’s erection sliding in and out of view between Charles’ curled fingers. There’s a slow heat starting in Erik’s belly, a coiling pleasure that makes his skin prickle.

“At least we always agree on this,” Charles murmurs, glancing up to meet Erik’s gaze.

Erik isn’t sure even that much is true -- but he isn’t planning to say so when Charles quite literally has his cock in hand. He just reaches out and slides one hand around the back of Charles’ head, refusing to look away from him even though meeting Charles’ eyes has him feeling all too raw and vulnerable, like he is unknowingly making a promise he can’t keep.

Charles, however, seems to take it as a hint, because he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, almost too quiet to hear, and goes with the pressure, bending forward awkwardly to take the head of Erik’s cock into his warm wet mouth. Erik tenses immediately, shifting his weight off his elbow and onto the palm of his hand; watching Charles suck his cock, that perfect mouth stretched around his girth and taking him in with only the slightest resistance is enough to have Erik’s hand twisting in Charles’ hair and his breath going ragged.

It pulls a groan from Charles that vibrates down Erik’s shaft, that strong tongue laving against the swollen flesh and rubbing up along the sensitive underside. Charles’ head is bobbing in Erik’s lap, faltering as Charles adjusts his own position so that he can lay down on his side between Erik’s legs, his elbows resting over the top of Erik’s thighs on either side. When Erik pulls again on Charles’ hair Charles’ blue eyes come up to meet Erik’s, and he keeps eye contact as he sucks, the look in his eyes determined and hot.

Charles has always been impossibly good at this -- and nothing’s changed in the past four months in that respect. Charles pursues Erik’s pleasure as if it were his own, leaving Erik’s cock flushed and throbbing and slick with Charles’ spit, Erik himself not quite managing to bite back his moans. The heat in his groin is building, his cock jumping a little in Charles’ mouth when the tip of Charles’ tongue catches just beneath the head, Charles’ name broken on Erik’s lips.

When Charles pulls off Erik’s cock feels cold, the air sharp against the sensitive skin. “Just a moment,” Charles says, and reaches down to pick at the laces for his own trousers, loosening them enough that he can slide them down and kick them free. Entirely nude, Charles hovers over Erik’s lap, glancing down at his own cock where it stands proud and hard, jutting away from his belly. “So…”

Erik has to struggle for a second to figure out what Charles is trying to say, his mind too torn apart by Charles’ mouth to really piece together his meaning. “What?” he says at last.

Charles’ voice is throaty and hoarse from sucking Erik off. “So, normally you’d have pulled me off to fuck me by now.”

“No,” Erik says, a beat too quickly. He’s not sure why he says it; not sure why the thought of fucking Charles right now feels wrong, or discordant, just that it does. That he wants anything else. “No, finish me like this. I want your mouth.”

“Oh,” and Charles looks surprised, brows lifting. “Um. All right.” And he bends his head again slowly, almost as if he’s waiting for Erik to change his mind, before he takes Erik’s cock back into his mouth and starts to suck on the head once more, tongue curling under the lip of it.

Erik lets his arm fold under his weight, leaning back against the bed and staring up at the ceiling, dappled in the firelight, his hand still resting on the back of Charles’ neck. After a moment he closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in the feel of it again, heart hammering at his sternum and Charles’ mouth a hot wet drag along his shaft. He’s close now, and when he thinks about the sight of Charles’ hard and ruddied cock he’s closer still. Charles’ weight holds down Erik’s hips, pinning him as Charles sucks and swallows around him, the muscles of his throat working Erik’s shaft.

Charles’ hands are resting on Erik’s hipbones, and Charles’ right thumb is stroking a soft line back and forth along the ridge of the bone, tracing it over and over even as Charles’ head bobs up and down Erik’s cock. Erik can smell that Charles is aroused, and that it’s taken on an edge of sexual frustration, the sharpness of which is just enough to send Erik over the edge, groaning as his hands curl into fists around Charles’ hair and the bed furs, his cock throbbing and jerking as he comes in Charles’ mouth, half-thrusting up into it.

Charles chokes and splutters, swallowing as best he can around Erik’s spurting cock, throat rippling, but plenty of Erik’s come runs down Charles’ chin instead, leaving him streaked and coughing. Erik pulls Charles’ head up a few seconds later, once he’s found enough of the pieces of himself that seem to have scattered with his climax; his body feels languid and warm and exhausted, but he pushes himself up anyway to look Charles in the eye as he wipes the come from Charles’ chin with the edge of his thumb.

They spent so long trying to get pregnant before, then being at odds, Erik realises, that he’s never actually come in Charles’ mouth -- no wonder Charles choked, his eyes wide and watering even now even as he’s crouching over Erik, cock swaying erect between his spread thighs.

Right, then -- Charles is still hard, a fact which pushes itself into Erik’s awareness almost as a secondary concern; Erik had practically forgotten in the rush of his own orgasm. He reaches down and takes Charles’ cock in hand, stroking up firm but quick.

Charles’ body curves into the touch, hips jerking forward, his belly brushing Erik’s forearm. “Nnnn, Gods,” Charles chokes out, his foreskin slipping easily down to expose the slick head of his erection, pink and dripping. Erik can feel Charles’ knees wobbling where they’re braced on either side of Erik’s thighs, even as he pushes into Erik’s grip.

Erik braces his other hand on Charles’ back, trying to keep him steady. When he kisses Charles’ mouth he can taste himself, strange and salty.

“Tell me what you need,” Erik says, twisting his wrist toward the head of Charles’ cock, setting up a steady rhythm even though he’s sure Charles will want more than this.

Charles’ knees slide further apart, widening his stance, and he’s gasping, little hitching breaths every time Erik’s hand tugs at him. “Something in me too, anything,” Charles says, eyes closed and his face and chest flushed. “Please, Erik!”

Erik’s Gift catches on iron before he’s even consciously aware he’s had the idea; a second later he delves in, piecing off half of what is left of the fire grate and pulling it to himself with his power. He kisses Charles again, biting at his lower lip as he molds part of the metal into a form about the size and girth of a candle, or two of Erik’s own fingers. When the smooth cool nub pushes against Charles’ hole Erik can _feel_ it, as keenly as if it were his own skin, the warmth of Charles’ body and his wetness against the metal as Erik slowly slides it up into him, Erik’s nails digging into Charles’ back.

The sound Charles makes is almost enough to get Erik hard again: a low, drawn-out cry as he’s filled with the cold iron, hard and implacable inside of him. Erik can feel it when Charles tightens around it, muscles clenching and squeezing. His head tips forward and the side of his face presses against Erik’s chest, his mouth fallen open. “Oh, fuck -- ”

Erik keeps the pace of his hand steady on Charles’ cock and lets the iron expand slowly inside Charles’ body, slowly enough not to hurt him, testing out what he wants and how much is too much; he certainly has plenty of material to work with. Charles is practically lying on top of him now, barely enough room for Erik’s arm to move in, and Charles is panting and moaning, hips thrusting erratically between the two stimuli, hot breath gusting across Erik’s nipple. It’s impossible to want someone this badly, Erik thinks, this soon after coming, but whether his cock’s involved or not Erik still manages to be aroused, skin hot and hungry, half of Erik’s mind now devoted to cataloguing every movement and sound Charles makes like this for future perusal.

Erik’s free hand finds its way back up to Charles’ hair, twisting a few curls around his knuckles as he lets the iron lose just enough of its solidity to undulate inside Charles, small waves rolling against him until one presses against spongier flesh and Charles cries out, grabbing onto Erik’s upper arm. Erik grins and starts fucking Charles with the iron, thrusting it in and out of him and making sure he hits that perfect spot each and every time, the metal’s memory more perfect than flesh.

Charles keeps making these _noises_ , getting louder and louder as Erik drives the metal in and out of him, his hole rippling and squeezing around the intrusion, until he’s almost screaming, “Ah, ah, ah!”, fingers so tight on Erik’s arm that Erik suspects it’ll bruise. Erik pulls on his hair until Charles lifts his head, and when Charles’ eyes open they’re all pupil, only the thinnest sliver of blue showing. “It feels so…” Charles manages, his entire body shivering with pleasure, and he comes, cock spurting in stripes up Erik’s chest and belly as Charles shakes and cries out, his ass clamping down around the penetration and keeping it there, pressed right where he needs it.

Erik is as stunned and breathless as if he’d just come himself, Charles’ pleasure so visceral that it’s almost contagious; Erik is drunk off the feel of Charles’ heat around the metal, and the look on his face. Erik’s only half thinking about it when he pushes enough new iron up inside Charles to swell the base of what’s inside him, locking it there as easily as if it were a knot, pressing against the glands just inside Charles’ hole that will make him soft and quiet and malleable.

“Ohhhhhh, fuck.” Charles’ eyelids flutter as he sags down fully against Erik, clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing around the heavy weight just inside his rim, stretching him open and filling him up. He may as well be boneless he’s so relaxed, every muscle in his body except those inside his hole loosening into bliss. “Mmmmmm. Please.”

Erik lowers himself slowly onto his back, holding Charles where he is with one arm around his shoulders, trying not to jostle him out of his reverie. He tilts his head to kiss the part of Charles’ hair and closes his eyes, his racing pulse finally beginning to slow. Charles only sighs, and lets himself be adjusted, his ass still clenching in pulses, trying to milk the fake knot inside of him. Erik could probably do almost anything right now while Charles is lost in his drawn-out afterglow without getting anything other than total compliance from his omega. They lie there for a while, Charles sighing and rippling around the metal, Erik content just to feel it from the other side, senses extended through the iron and giving him a secondary sort of enjoyment.

When the knot inside Charles is something Erik controls rather than a simple reflex, it’s much harder, when the time comes, for him to bring himself to soften the metal again and slide it out. It feels as if he’s making the conscious decision to end Charles’ pleasure somehow, even if it’s something that has to be done. But Charles just stretches, toes and fingers curling before he resettles himself right where he was, eyelids sliding open to half-mast so he can look up at Erik.

“That was good,” he says, his voice still a little raw, and Erik is very conscious of the feel of Charles’ breathing, his chest pressed against Erik’s and his legs tangled in with Erik’s. “You never did that before.”

“Good,” Erik says, smoothing his hand slowly down Charles’ spine, a small smile curving at his lips. “I’m glad.”

He uses his Gift to move the iron off the bed, letting it decompress back into an amorphous mass; his senses catch on gold a second later and Erik pulls what’s left of Charles’ wedding ring out of the pocket of his trousers, on the floor. It’s easy to clean the soot off if he flattens the metal just enough to rub at it with his thumb, using his power where that fails to repel the tiny particles of ash.

He reforms the gold into a slim band, perfectly smooth on the outside, though on the inner surface Erik inscribes something new, etching words into the metal. When he’s done he offers it to Charles wordlessly, holding it pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

Charles looks at it for a long moment, his expression unchanging save for a tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth that could be a smile or a frown. But then he lifts his hand and allows Erik to slide the ring back onto his finger, Erik’s power resizing the metal until it’s a perfect fit, snug against Charles’ skin.

“Better,” Erik murmurs, kissing the ring and squeezing Charles’ hand lightly.

Charles does smile then, a small, soft curve of his lips that feels somehow private, something nobody who wasn’t as close as Erik is to him would even see. “You’re not regretting marrying me?” he asks quietly.

“No.” Erik settles his hand on the curve of Charles’ stomach, moving in soft slow circles. “I regret that you couldn’t trust me. I don’t regret loving you.”

“I…” Charles trails off, clearly deliberating over something, and his expression shifts as he thinks, moving through a myriad of expressions before finally he says, “I regret that things happened the way they did. I won’t apologise for my reaction, because I don’t think there was another way I could react with the information I had. But given everything that has happened yesterday and today, and the plans we’ve made with Ororo, I’m sure now that I was wrong, if that helps in any way.”

Erik isn’t sure if it helps or not. As happy as he is that Charles seems to believe him, that doesn’t erase the weight of those four months on Erik’s heart. A part of him still feels raw and bleeding, and no words from Charles will heal it. Not yet, anyway.

“I understand,” he says after a while. And he does. He just wishes he could erase the heavy fear that, at any time, inevitably, Charles will take it all back again.

The baby moves inside Charles, and Erik can feel the movement against his hand, subtle and shifting.

“Can I ask you something?”

Erik nods.

Charles’ mouth twists, until he’s almost pouting. “What did you and Magda talk about, the day I met her? You were touching her hair, and it looked pretty … well, it looked pretty intimate.” There’s a hint of jealousy in his voice, one that Erik finds more satisfying than he suspects he ought.

“Magda is my oldest friend,” Erik says. “After you, she’s the person I care for most in the world. I told her about your pregnancy; she was pleased.”

Charles snorts, but doesn’t reply, just shifts his arm across Erik’s chest, hand resting on his opposite shoulder - the movement leaves him covering most of Erik’s body with his own, casual but noticeable, now that Erik _has_ noticed.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Erik grins, his arm around Charles’ waist tightening slightly, keeping him in place. “You want me all to yourself.”

“If you think Magda was pleased, you’re an idiot,” Charles says, but he doesn’t dispute Erik’s claim. “She thinks you love her still, and she loves you. I’m a necessary evil.”

“I’ll speak with Magda. But you know she’s wrong. I do love her, but -- not the way I love you. They’re not at all the same.”

“But I _don’t_ know she’s wrong,” Charles says, and he sits up on one elbow, looking down at Erik with his brows drawn together, a frustrated wrinkle forming between them and the corners of his mouth drawn down, tight and unhappy. “You would have married her if you could have, instead of writing to Kurt after me. You say so, but I don’t know so. You were looking at her like -- I don’t know.”

“You’re right,” Erik says, surprising even himself a little when the words come out, calm and steady. “I would have married her. I would have preferred it, at the time. But it doesn’t do anyone any good, thinking about what I would or would not have done in some other world. That’s not the world we live in. Maybe it’s true, maybe you don’t get over any of your first loves. But you can meet someone you love _more._ ”

“I only love _you_ , and Raven, and she’s my sister,” Charles says, and he says it so grumpily that it’s almost comical.

“You’ll love our baby.” Erik tilts Charles’ face toward him and brushes his lips against the corner of Charles’ frowning mouth. “You’ll love all our children.”

“That’s not at all the same as you loving Magda too,” Charles grumbles, but he lets himself be petted into lying back down against Erik’s chest, laying his head on Erik’s breast.

“The way I love Magda isn’t any different from the way you love Raven. Maybe it was, once, but not anymore.” Erik can feel Charles’ breath on his skin, warm and shallow. “Hers isn’t the face I see when I sleep at night.”

Charles doesn’t say anything to that, but Erik can feel it when Charles touches his thumb to the smooth band of his ring, rubbing along the body-warmed metal. The baby kicks again, against Erik’s side this time where Charles is lying on him, a hard jolt that makes Charles flinch, wincing.

“I think it wants out,” Erik says.

Charles snorts. “It has three months left to bake first. Lucky me.” He strokes the curve of his own belly, though, gently, tenderly, putting the lie to his words. “I’m going to get even bigger.”

“You’ll be practically waddling any week now,” Erik agrees. He shifts a second later, gently dislodging Charles from his place atop him so that Erik can move back on the bed, down low enough to kiss Charles’ swollen stomach, right where he thinks he felt the kick before.

“Wonderful,” Charles says dryly. “I’ll look forward to that.” His hand shifts into Erik’s hair, continuing the stroking motion, fingers sifting through the strands.

“Do you think it knows who I am?” Erik isn’t sure where the question comes from, really. Perhaps the same place as those dark dreams, in which Charles is far away and his child barely recognises him. Charles had said the baby knew Erik’s voice, but Erik doesn’t see how it could; he’s barely been around for most of Charles’ pregnancy.

“Mmm. It recognises your voice,” Charles says, fingers drifting down to toy with the hair at the nape of Erik’s neck. “It’s not -- well, it’s not enough of a mind, yet, to put that into context otherwise. But it hears you talking to me.”

“I love you,” Erik says to Charles’ stomach, speaking in the Frjáls tongue, lips only just brushing Charles’ skin. “Both of us do.” His eyes fall shut and he tries to imagine a child half-him and half-Charles, with Erik’s hair perhaps but Charles’ eyes and Charles’ smile.

It’s the middle of the day, and there are plenty of things that both of them need to do, but for now they stay just where they are, ignoring the rest of the world.

 

~*~


	11. Eleven

_Erik_

Erik keeps a close eye on Charles over the next several days, but as far as he can tell, Charles seems to have been sincere when he indicated that he wanted this -- wanted to be with Erik again, to start over, as they were. It doesn’t entirely relieve Erik’s tense suspicions that something will soon go awry, but it’s enough that he doesn’t feel quite as daring when he touches Charles, or so exposed when he looks him in the eye.

It makes it easier to attend to his work, at least, when he doesn’t have the constant shadow of Charles’ absence lingering in the back of his mind. Even Logan comments that Erik seems more focused during their sparring sessions, even if Erik isn’t taking as many risks as he used to. “You’re playing it safe, boy,” Logan had said. 

He wasn’t wrong. Erik finds it difficult to be bold when Charles is now so visibly pregnant. He doesn’t want his child growing up like the children of so many generals do, and the fear that Charles will keep him from his baby has taken second position to the fear that Erik won’t even be there for Charles to push him away. The missives he receives from the South indicate that Shaw is gathering his troops; Shaw has seemed content to leave Erik in charge of the North up until now, but Shaw is too aware of Erik’s dislike for him. If he were to decide that Erik was no longer a risk worth taking, this war would be the perfect time to ensure Erik fell on the battlefield, pierced through with a wooden spear or his head bashed in against rocks. 

But most of all, he worries about Charles himself. How easy would it be, for Charles to slip on the stairs coming down from their rooms? For him to eat something that had gone rancid and be poisoned? To catch a chill from an open window and fall into permanent fever?

Best to keep Charles close to his side, Erik decides, where he can keep an eye on him. He takes to bringing Charles with him to the meetings with his lieutenants, silencing their questioning looks with cold glares, though Charles earns his own respect quickly enough when he interrupts the conversation to interject with pertinent remarks. Erik finds he likes just having Charles there, where other people can see him, swollen with Erik’s child. There’s a strange sort of pride that burns in his chest when someone asks when he’s due, if they’ve chosen names. 

“Not soon enough,” Charles says to the first, and, “Not yet,” to the second, smiling to both even though Erik knows Charles is getting increasingly grumpy about being so pregnant. At first Erik thinks that Charles is regretting that they’ve left their distance behind them, but each time that Charles allows himself to be petted into acquiescence it becomes clearer and clearer that his mood is more to do with his girth and constant need for the bathroom than it is to do with Erik.

“I can eat my own damn food,” Charles finally snaps at midwinter, every table in the hall decked out for the festivities and his fork clenched tightly in his right hand.

Erik has speared one of Charles’ sausages and has it halfway to his own mouth, Charles’ plate dragged just out of Charles’ reach until he can be sure that everything on it is safe for consumption.

“Of course you can,” Erik says placatingly. “Just let me check it first. Better to be safe.”

“Check it for what?” Charles grabs his plate and drags it back over to himself, scowling as he stabs at his cabbage and stuffs it defiantly into his mouth. “Gib me ba ma saudadge.”

Erik frowns, but doesn’t chase after the plate again. Not yet, anyway. “It could be undercooked,” he points out. “It could have gone bad. It could be poisoned. You don’t need to be putting yourself in danger when danger is so easily avoided.”

Charles swallows his mouthful, not looking at all mollified. “Glad to know you only care about those things when I’m pregnant,” he says, rolling his eyes. “For the Gods’ sake, Erik, you know damn well that’s just the instinct talking. Stop being so paranoid and let me eat my dinner in peace. Haven’t you done enough?” He gestures at his swollen stomach, which has forced him to sit almost a foot back from the edge of the table.

Erik’s lips thin out and he reaches for Charles’ plate again, pulling it toward himself and using Charles’ knife to cut the sausage in half, lifting it up to eye level to inspect the coloration of the inside. It’s well done, he supposes. Even so, he’s glad he checked. 

“It’s not paranoia,” he says, though he notices his own mind carefully avoiding considerations of whether it’s the irrational consequence of instinct, pushing the sausage off his fork and letting Charles reclaim his plate. “If you weren’t pregnant, food poisoning would just mean an unhappy few days. I don’t know what it would do to the baby.”

“Then speak to the cooks. They all love me too much, according to you, so if they’re going to give either of us food poisoning it’s not going to be me.”

Erik raises his wine glass and a servant comes forth to refill it. He sips at the drink to avoid having to respond to Charles immediately, the alcohol burning on its way down. “I’m not going to stop looking out for our child just because you don’t like it,” he says at last. “You can be frustrated with me if you want. I don’t care.”

Charles just rolls his eyes again, and waits until Erik isn’t looking to steal Erik’s sausage, fork darting under Erik’s elbow to impale it; Erik doesn’t notice until Charles is already biting into it, and Charles’ eyes are sparkling above it, far too pleased with himself.

Erik tugs the fork out of his hand a second later with his Gift and finishes the other half of the sausage himself, smirking in Charles’ direction before handing him back the empty utensil with a small flourish.

“Bastard,” Charles says, and steals all of Erik’s cheese as well.

After dinner they circulate the lower floors of the castle, greeting the various guests who have shown for the midwinter festivities and tasting some of the spicy ciders brought in by the townsfolk. Erik, perhaps, indulges a bit too much; he’s pleasantly light-headed by the time they take their leave and ascend toward their rooms once more. He barely even realises that this is the first time he’s accompanied Charles to bed. Even in the past week since their tentative reconciliation he’s always waited until a few hours after Charles went upstairs to retire himself.

It’s nice, actually, to see Charles getting ready for bed while Erik does the same: Charles sitting at the dressing table to remove the pins and jewellery from his clothes while Erik is sat on the bed and removing his boots, Charles brushing out his hair until it waves loosely around his ears while Erik strips down to his skin, Charles undressing, finally, folding his clothes and putting them in drawers, his changed body pale and round in the candlelight. There are pink marks on his belly now, like the stripes of one of the tigers Erik once saw in the South.

Once Charles has cleaned his teeth with the mixture of sage and salt they keep in a little pot on the dressing table, scrubbing at them with a rag, he takes up a larger jar and unscrews the lid, loosing a sweet scent of juniper into the air.

“What’s that?” Erik asks from his spot at the foot of the bed, meeting Charles’ gaze in the glass mirror over the dressing table.

“Mmm? Oh, it’s whale fat, mixed with some herbs to make it smell better,” Charles says, looking back at Erik over his shoulder, seeming almost surprised -- but not displeased -- to find him sat there, watching him. “Hank gave it to me. It helps keep my stretch marks to a minimum, since I’m growing so quickly. I apply it all over my belly every night before I go to sleep.”

“Ah.” Erik lets him get back to it, moving to settle himself up against the headboard, reaching for the book he keeps on his bedside table. His attention won’t stay fixed, though; it keeps drifting back over to Charles, latching onto the sight of Charles’ hands rubbing the oily mixture into his skin. He doesn’t like to think about Hank showing Charles how to apply it, the other man’s hands on Charles’ bare flesh.

“Come here,” Erik says after a few minutes. “Let me.”

Charles’ hands pause, and for a moment Erik think he’ll refuse -- but then Charles gets up from his stool and moves over to the bed, offering Erik the jar. “Here.” Climbing up beside him, Charles lets Erik tug him back onto the mattress, leaning against Erik’s chest between his spread legs. 

Erik dips his fingers into the jar; the fat comes out solid and congealed, and he has to rub it between his hands and warm it up before it’s soft enough to start to massage it slowly into Charles’ skin. “This?” he asks, smoothing his hands under Charles’ bump.

“Yes,” Charles says, wriggling a little against Erik to get himself into a more comfortable position, his ass snugged up against Erik’s crotch and his head tipping back a little to rest against Erik’s shoulder. “All over. And you have to rub it right in so it gets absorbed.”

“I know how to apply skin cream,” Erik says, but he does as Charles suggests anyway, wasting little time as he presses the fatty mixture onto Charles’ belly. The baby is kicking more than usual these days, he’s noticed. Even now he can feel a slight ripple against his palms as it shifts its position somewhere deep inside Charles’ body.

Charles just sighs and relaxes against Erik, his hands resting on Erik’s thighs on either side of his own, the bridge of his nose brushing against the side of Erik’s throat, his breaths warm and steady. His stomach is full and taut, firm under Erik’s palms with only the slightest give to it. “That feels nice,” Charles says, making a pleased sound almost like a purr as Erik rubs over his navel.

“How much do I have to use?” Erik asks; the container is half-empty, but he’s not sure how long Charles has been using it.

“Mmm?”

“How long do you need me to do this for?”

Erik can feel Charles’ mouth quirk where it’s pressed against his throat, and he realises when he dips under the curve of Charles’ belly that Charles is getting hard, his cock swelling between his legs and hidden from Erik’s view by his stomach. Charles shifts again, just his hips, rubbing side-to-side against Erik. “I don’t know. How long are you willing to do it for?”

Erik blinks, caught off guard; he still can’t help being slightly surprised whenever Charles says things like this, considering how embarrassed Charles used to be about his body and appetites when they first started having sex. But his cock has already taken an interest in the proceedings, twitching against the small of Charles’ back when Charles half-grinds his ass against it. 

“As long as you’ll let me, I expect,” Erik says.

Charles makes another sound and rubs himself against Erik once more, his hands stroking down Erik’s thighs. “Then keep going? Please?”

“If you like.” Erik dips his hand back into the jar and rubs his palms together, but this time when he touches Charles again it’s to curl his hand around his half-hard cock, pulling one firm stroke up toward the head. “Like so?”

“Aaaah, exactly like that,” Charles groans, hands squeezing tight around Erik’s legs and his back arching a little. His cock jumps in Erik’s hand, swelling further. 

Erik smirks and keeps going, slowly at first, then quicker once Charles is completely hard, biting down where Charles’ neck meets his shoulder, just hard enough to leave a small, purpling mark. It earns him a deep, rumbling moan from Charles, who plants his foot flat on the bed so he can push back against Erik’s erection where it’s nestled between his cheeks, pillowed against Charles’ pregnancy-rounded ass.

Erik knows how to touch Charles just-so, to make him come hard and fast. He’s had to evade Charles enough times this week when Charles was so clearly looking to get Erik to fuck him, but it’s easiest when Charles has come already himself. Erik jerks him at an almost punishing pace, Charles squirming against him and moaning, until at last Charles is shooting long hot spurts of come against Erik’s fist and his own stomach, nails digging into Erik’s thighs.

It’s different from when Charles is knotted, in that he’s relaxed, but not so completely undone by orgasm that he can barely be bothered to move; Charles sighs as his hips jerk through the last of it and lifts his arm to wrap around the back of Erik’s head, tugging him down enough to kiss him, hard and sweet. His mouth still tastes like sage, and a little bit like the cider he’d been drinking downstairs. Erik’s mind is muddled enough that he can’t quite restrain the grin that tugs at his lips, their teeth knocking together a bit. He tilts his hips forward, grinding his cock against Charles’ ass; there’s not much as far as leverage, but it’s still plenty of friction to be stimulating.

Charles gets the idea fairly quickly; he plants both his feet against the mattress this time, still kissing Erik’s mouth, and rolls his ass back against Erik, until Erik is sliding up and down the hot slick crease between Charles’ buttocks, almost as good as being inside him. Erik wraps a hand around Charles’ thigh and uses it to help himself thrust forward, fucking himself up against Charles’ flesh, balls slapping against Charles’ skin. He nips at Charles’ lower lip just to hear the sharp intake of breath he gets in response, and Charles hisses, shoving back harder.

“Fuck me, come on,” Charles says into Erik’s mouth, his breath coming in pants. “Fuck me, Erik -- ”

Erik closes his eyes and keeps thrusting forward, grip tightening on Charles’ leg and his brow pressed to Charles’. It’s not long before he can feel the muscles tensing in his stomach; he grits his teeth, gasping, driving his cock up and down between Charles’ cheeks until finally he comes, groaning out Charles’ name, hips jerking up against Charles’ ass. His last few spasmodic thrusts smear his semen along the crease and onto the small of Charles’ back, wet and sticky.

When Erik finally comes down from his afterglow enough to pay attention Charles is looking up at him from where his head is resting on Erik’s shoulder with a strange look on his face. Erik kisses him to keep him from asking, soft and slow, fingers brushing one of Charles’ curls out of his face.

Charles doesn’t fight it, even though Erik knows he has to be wondering what the problem is by now. Instead he just returns the kiss, leaning back into Erik’s body, and when the kiss breaks he just says, blandly, pointedly _not_ asking, “Now I’m going to have to wash again. My ass feels disgusting.”

Erik’s lips quirk up at one corner. “I’m not apologising,” he says, letting go of Charles’ thigh to smooth his hand up over the curve of Charles’ belly instead.

“Well, I’m not getting up,” Charles says. “I’m the size of a whale and about as limber on land. So either you can put up with my bitching tomorrow or you can fetch me the washcloth. Your choice.”

“Fine,” Erik says, kissing Charles’ temple before pushing Charles’ weight up off his chest so he can slide out from behind him, getting out of bed and crossing the room to where Charles’ bathing materials are kept, now that he’s too far along to use the geothermal baths, which are far too hot for a pregnant omega. Erik wets a cloth in the lukewarm water by the fire and carries it back over, handing it to Charles.

Charles has to kneel up to get at the mess on his back, but once he’s done he hands the cloth back to Erik with a wry smile before settling himself slowly -- no careless flopping any more -- down onto his side, watching Erik as he goes around the room snuffing out candles with his damp fingers. He looks troubled, but he doesn’t say anything, and Erik doesn’t press him.

~*~

After the first night of midwinter, the festivities only escalate. People flock to Ironhold from all over the North: noblemen, commoners, and Frjáls alike. Tonight there’s burning-wine instead of cider, and a feast of fermented shark meat and headcheese. The theme for the evening is centered around Erik’s soldiers, who are presenting exhibitions in some of the side rooms, engaged in duels and fist-fighting.

The sound of metal-on-metal and flesh-on-flesh echoes from the high ceilings of the halls, large areas cleared and marked off for the bouts to take place with servants and guests clustered around them, shouting for their favourites and booing their opponents; Erik can see plenty of betting going on, too, something which normally he would discourage but that he doesn’t intend to trouble himself over tonight. Let them have their fun; he has Charles at his side, watching the proceedings with bright, curious eyes, grumpy only when he’s told by a passing Doctor Austmann not to have any of the burning-wine, and to stick to the softer ales provided for children.

They wander the rooms slowly, taking in the different fights going on and sampling the different foods being brought around by those servants whose shift it currently is. Erik catches sight of Logan in one match, wrestling bare-chested against another man, equally as brawny; in another, two alpha women are facing off with wooden staves, just as bare-chested as the men, sweaty and snarling at one another as they attack with precise savagery.

“Watch Jódís,” Erik murmurs to Charles as they draw closer, the crowd shifting to make room for them. “The redhead.”

She moves almost like a dancer, ducking her opponent’s blows or blocking them with her staff and, with the same movement, transitioning into an offensive attack. The problem is that she’s predictable: Erik can tell as much after watching for just a few seconds. She steps with her right foot before she attacks, and she always goes in for a hit after a defensive manoeuvre. 

“Do you see?” he asks Charles.

“She’s very pretty,” Charles says dryly, glancing sidelong at Erik, “if that’s what you mean?”

“No. Watch how she fights. See if you can notice the pattern, when she blocks Ása’s staff.”

Charles is quiet for the next few exchanges, but when Erik looks down at him he can see Charles’ eyes tracking the fighters’ movements, taking them in and looking for what Erik has seen. “Hmm,” Charles says after one particularly vicious exchange, where Ása strikes a solid blow directly to Jódís’ chest. “She’s full of tells, isn’t she?”

Erik nods. Charles is observant; if he weren’t too old to learn, he would have made a good fighter himself, perhaps, with time and training. Not to mention his telepathy; with that in play, Erik doubts anyone could stand against him and last for very long. Omegas are not allowed in Shaw’s armies, of course, but Erik trains them all the same, knowing their numbers will mean something when it comes time to finally take back what Shaw has stolen from him.

“Come with me,” Erik says, catching Charles’ wrist in his hand and tugging him away, down the hall toward the next set of fighting rooms. 

The next pair he shows Charles are using swords, dulled for practice but still heavy enough to wound if they made contact. The duelists are, in a way, a pair themselves: a small alpha female and her omega husband, dressed only in skintight black scouts’ costumes, sweaty, the omega’s cheek bleeding from a small cut, nearing the end of their round.

“Is he an omega?” Charles asks, eyebrows rising in surprise.

“He is,” Erik confirms, clasping his hands behind his back. “Freyr, and his alpha Kristín.”

“He’s good,” Charles says, gaze following the back-and-forth of the fight. “No Southern alpha would dare give their omega a sword if they thought he or she could and would wield it.”

Erik bites back his smile. He’s seen enough of Southern alphas to sympathise rather strongly with their omegas’ more homicidal urges. “A good thing she’s Frjáls then, for her own sake.”

They stay and watch until Kristín finally pins Freyr to the mat, sword at his throat, and he concedes, laughing as she gives him a hand to his feet; when they kiss Charles turns his head away, and Erik fights the urge to find out if Charles would be quite so embarrassed, were it himself getting kissed and claimed in front of a crowd of strangers.

“Can we go and sit for a while?” Charles asks, tucking his hand through Erik’s elbow and leaning into his side. “I’m getting a bit tired.”

“Of course.” 

Charles’ ankles have been swelling, lately -- a sequela of the pregnancy, and Erik knows he shouldn’t have let Charles stay on his feet this long, as it is. They wind their way toward the receiving room and Erik waits until Charles is settled in his chair before he takes his own seat, accepting another glass of burning-wine from a passing servant and downing it in a few swallows. He’s halfway to drunk already, and intends to get the rest of the way before the evening’s over. What is the purpose of these things, if the Duke himself cannot imbibe?

Charles folds his hands across his stomach, tucking his cloak more closely around himself. It’s the dark green one Erik gave to him on their wedding day, the Lehnsherr crest upon its breast, and it looks very well on Charles, in Erik’s colours and swollen with Erik’s child, the evidence clear between the edges of the heavy fabric. Erik hopes he wears it more often.

“It’s a good colour on you,” Erik says.

“Thank you.” Charles smiles, and reaches over to pluck Erik’s glass from his hand before he can react, raising it to his nose. “Mmm. And your wine smells good.”

“Too harsh for your delicate humours, though.” Erik bares his teeth as he grins. “I won’t have you intoxicating my child at such a young age.”

“If I can’t drink it I can at least sniff it,” Charles says, without giving it back.

“It just smells like alcohol.” Not a very pleasant smell, in Erik’s opinion, but pregnant omegas have liked stranger things. “Would you like me to get you an ale? Cider?”

“Oh, very well,” Charles says, with an exaggerated air of persecution. “Cider, then, if you don’t mind? I’ll just hold onto this for you until you come back.”

Erik lets him keep it, as he doesn’t think Charles would blatantly flout Austmann’s warning, even if he does run around the castle with not nearly enough furs on and eat unchecked sausages. The burning-wine must have hit him harder than he’d thought, but he doesn’t realise it until he’s already standing and the blood all rushes from his head, making him briefly dizzy. The effect is just pleasant enough that he doesn’t quite have the restraint to keep himself from bending over and kissing Charles on the forehead before he goes, breathing in the warm smell of omega. “One cider,” he says firmly.

“Thank you.” Charles looks about to say something else, but then one of their guests approaches him and he’s distracted, smiling at somebody else and caught up in conversation.

Erik slips away, following the direction of the crowds back down the hall and keeping an eye out for the telltale blue cloaks the servants are wearing tonight. The first one he finds doesn’t have cider, though he’s offering small plates of cubed hákarl, which Erik is interested to see Charles try even if he detests it himself. The next servant just has burning-wine. Erik takes another glass, though this time he sips slowly; no matter how drunk he wants to _end_ the evening, there’s no reason to get there too fast and then be unable to remember the celebrations come the next morning.

It’s slow-going in the main halls. People stop him frequently to greet him or to ask after Charles, and Erik is becoming increasingly aware of the passage of time; Charles will be wondering what’s keeping him, soon, and Erik’s still had no luck obtaining what he left to get. Even so, the thought of going back to Charles empty-handed irks him, even if he finds it easy to brush aside the voice in his head that complains what a poor alpha he must be, if he can’t even provide a drink for his pregnant omega. (He hadn’t realised that all the stories were true, about the ridiculous things one thinks when one’s omega gets with child, and yet here he is, and here they are. He’d blame it on the drink if he wasn’t fairly certain that had nothing to do with it.)

Finally he decides to wait at the end of the corridor, where the traffic is light but where all servants must pass on their ways to and from the kitchen. And it’s there that Magda finds him, appearing between one passing body and the next, walking up to his side with casual calm in her best dress, her hair pulled back with a pretty green scarf. 

“Hello,” she says.

“A very happy midwinter to you, too,” Erik says pointedly, toasting his glass of wine in her direction. “Have you been here long? I hadn’t seen you.”

Magda looks mildly uncomfortable, like there’s something she wants to say but daren’t; after a moment she says, “No, not long. It took some time to reach the castle through the snowfields,” and folds her arms under her breasts, stepping back slightly to be out of the way of passing servants. “How … it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too.” Erik wants to place his hand on her arm, to make her feel more at ease, but given what Charles has told him about her interpretation of his feelings for her, he holds back. “There’s no need to be so tense; Charles already told me what he did. He told me what he heard, as well.”

Not that that will make Magda capable of talking about it, he supposes, if Charles never removed the telepathic block from her mind, but he thinks it would be better than not-knowing and her thinking she is still being forced to keep secrets from him. He drinks from his glass again and then offers it to her.

“I suspect your husband would be less than enthused if I did,” Magda says coolly, but then she takes the glass from his hand and sips at the wine anyway, her eyes on Erik’s the whole time, measuring him.

“Where is he?” she asks when she hands it back, and if her voice is calm her expression is not, quite.

“Waiting for me to come back with cider,” Erik says. “I’m not having much luck, it seems. A popular beverage tonight.” He sets the plate of hákarl down and leans back against the wall, slipping his free hand into his pocket, fingering the smooth edge of one of the metal spheres inside. He needs to have a talk with her, and sooner rather than later, but now doesn’t seem the time; he’s barely seen her all winter, since Charles infringed upon her mind, and he’d rather bring this up when they have time to discuss it properly, not in a busy hall surrounded by strangers.

She takes a breath in, and it’s shaky on the way out, even as she leans back beside him, her body the image of calm. Erik has known Magda long enough to know when she’s upset, and to have a good guess at why she is now. She can’t talk about what Charles did to her, so she can’t even tell him how she feels about it, even to complain or snarl about it, but he’s sure that’s what this is about.

“He shouldn’t have done it,” Erik says. “It was … a violation. But I think he felt he was doing the right thing at the time. Or, the only thing.” Small comfort to her, he suspects. He can’t imagine how Charles would take to being asked to remove the restriction on Magda’s mind, even as a show of good faith. 

“There are things I cannot speak about,” Magda replies, and her voice is so tight, wrought out through gritted teeth, that she must be fighting the restriction even to say that much, her gaze furious. “But I want you to know, Erik, that I am … unhappy, with the way you are siding with … a Southerner, over one of your own people.” Even that is nonspecific, said so tensely the words almost don’t escape.

Heat lashes down his spine and Erik’s mouth draws out into a thin line. “I’m not siding with him,” he snaps. “He did what he had to do to protect himself, in his mind -- that’s an _explanation_ , not an excuse.” Of course, even saying that much is likely not helping the situation. Magda did nothing wrong, and Charles did, regardless of whether he might have thought it necessary. “I know you didn’t do anything to deserve it. And of course I think he shouldn’t have done it -- there are a _lot_ of things that Charles should not have done. But he’s still my husband.”

“Yes,” says Charles, stepping around the end of the corridor and into the hallway. Erik starts and nearly spills his wine as he pushes off the wall. The corners of Charles’ mouth turned down and his own arms folded across his chest, mirroring Magda’s posture. “I am. And frankly seeing as she told you to _kill me_ , I think that I was quite merciful, all things considered. I may not like doing it, but I will defend myself.”

~*~

_Charles_

It’s a jolt to the stomach to go looking for Erik in his mind, searching through other eyes because Charles is too lazy to get up and go looking on foot, to find Erik talking to none other than Magda in a back corridor of the castle, leaning casually against the wall as if nothing is wrong with that. Sat in his chair in the receiving room making conversation with the mayor of Ironhold Town, Charles can’t help but feel everything inside of him clench with painful emotion, like some giant fist has reached in and squeezed down hard around his heart.

“Please excuse me,” he says, too distracted to notice any reply before he levers himself out of his chair and heads towards the corridor where he can feel Magda looking at Erik, thinking about how much she fears Charles and wishing she could explain to Erik just how violated he made her feel, how dangerous Charles is. Charles bristles all over, thinking, _I’ll show her dangerous_ , already prepared to fight her if he has to.

When he finally sees them there with his own two eyes Erik is saying, “There are a _lot_ of things that Charles should not have done. But he’s still my husband,” and Charles has to swallow a lump in his throat before he can reply to the effect that she deserved it.

“Undo what you did,” Magda says, swivelling sharply on one foot to face Charles head-on, her chin lifting as she beats down her fear in favour of determination. “If we all know what happened then at least you can let me have a civilised discussion about it instead of gagging me.”

“Do it, Charles,” Erik says, turning his gaze on Charles, and Charles frowns, hurt by the imperial tone of Erik’s voice.

“It’s not as easy as snapping fingers,” he says, trying to sound unfazed. “I need a few moments, and if we’re going to have a civilised discussion, let’s not do it in the servants’ corridor.” Charles gestures for them to follow, and walks away down the corridor towards the stairs that lead to the upper rooms, headed for the laundresses’ washing room; the washing room at least has seats, and nobody in it to listen in.

Erik and Magda come behind him in relative silence, though when the door is shut Magda is the only one of the two who sits, her spine ramrod-straight. Erik tips his glass up and downs the rest of his burning-wine, setting the empty goblet down on a table with a clatter.

It’s not a big room, full of clean sheets and clothes and smelling of lye and lavender, overstrong and a little sickening; it smells the way Charles feels when he looks at Erik stood between them and cannot read his expression to even guess what Erik is thinking.

“Look,” Charles says to Magda, once he’s seated himself and laid aside the pile of folded linens that had been left upon the chair. “I apologise for the necessity of restricting what you could say. I don’t like -- _editing_ people, like that, where I can help it. But given your relationship with Erik and your frankly alarming opinion that Erik should either kill me or manipulate me into cooperation with your plans, I had no choice.”

“Just because I could run you through with my sword doesn’t mean you can kill me for wearing one at my belt,” Magda replies sharply, and Charles can almost admire her in that moment, because she _is_ afraid of him -- angry, resentful of his mental intrusion but afraid, too, of what he could still do to her now if he chose. “You had no right to do that to me, and certainly no right to leave me that way once you’d talked to Erik.”

“I won’t make a fake apology for something I’m not sorry for,” he says, even as he shifts forward to place two fingers on Magda’s temple, ignoring her flinch and settling them more firmly over the thin skin. “I acted in self-defence for myself and my child. But I’ll remove it now.”

When Magda nods, tight and controlled, Charles closes his eyes and slips past her uppermost thoughts into her deeper mind.

Here, he could do anything to her -- could make her stop feeling the way she does about Erik, for example, something a part of Charles would dearly love to do -- but instead Charles simply looks for his own footprints, finding where he has been before, and erases them with care, withdrawing only once he is sure he’s done. He’s embarrassed to see what a raw and patched-together job he’d done in the first place -- it must have been difficult for Magda’s mind to bear.

“There,” he says stiffly, once he’s drawn back into his seat. “All done.”

“Thank you,” Erik says, when it’s clear Magda isn’t going to. He’s still standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest, face almost calculatedly dispassionate. After a few extended moments he says: “Charles, regardless of how necessary it seemed at the time, surely in retrospect you can admit it was excessive.”

“If you would prefer me to be insincere in my apology then I can do that,” Charles says, mouth tightening as he tries to keep the sting of Erik’s words from showing on his face. “It’s easy to say ‘in hindsight this was wrong’, but it doesn’t mean my response was inappropriate at the time. I already apologised as far as I’m able to honestly.”

Erik’s brow lifts. “In hindsight, _was_ it wrong, then?”

Charles’ mouth tightens, irritated beyond control; Erik seems determined to rub Charles’ nose in his mistakes and ignore the secrets that Erik kept that led Charles to his decision in the first place. “If I had all of the information then that I do now, of course I wouldn’t have acted the same way,” he says, his voice kept coldly polite in the way he learned at his mother’s knee. “Unfortunately for all concerned, I didn’t. I’m a telepath, Erik -- what would you expect me to do?”

Erik doesn’t answer, he just turns his gaze to Magda almost expectantly.

“I don’t like you,” Magda says, so bluntly that Charles is almost taken aback, her eyes sparking; he can almost imagine her hair crackling, electric and bristling at him, half anger and half self-defence, showing how much more dangerous she is than him. “I don’t like what you did to me. I might understand it, from a purely pragmatic point of view, but I don’t have to like it and I don’t have to like you.”

“Then as long as we all understand one another,” Erik says, and for the first time that night he looks exhausted, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “If there’s no other pressing business, then I’m going to bed. The two of you are welcome to continue this if you like, though I recommend against it.”

“Actually,” Magda says, turning her gaze from its fixed stare at Charles to a softer if still focused glance at Erik, “I did also need to give you an update on another matter. One best discussed in private.”

Charles huffs, brows drawing together in a frown. “Then you can go, because I have no intention of leaving you here to pour poison in Erik’s ear.”

Erik lowers his hand. “If it concerns military matters, you can say it in front of Charles. As it turns out, he has significant interest in cooperating with our goals against Shaw.”

Magda looks between them, her expression hard, and Charles feels the moment where she accepts that she is going to have to include Charles in what has always been a private thing between her and Erik, despite her dislike for him. It pains her, on a real and emotional level, and there’s a part of Charles too that pities her, then, having to accept his very concrete role in Erik’s life, where she feels and has always felt that she belonged.

“The latest group from the strið sect are ready to be integrated into your existing troops,” she says, her voice tight and stripped of feeling. “I’ve fully briefed their leader on our objectives, so until I join you at the front he will command in my absence.”

 _Join Erik?_ Charles’ jaw sets tightly, and he’s about to turn to Erik to demand an explanation, but when he looks Erik looks -- tired, almost old for once, and the protest dies in his throat.

“Send them down as soon as the roads are cleared,” Erik says. “I’ll put them in Logan’s battalion for now. Anything else?”

“I -- ,” Magda starts, and Charles can’t help but hear the silent thrum of her unspoken feelings for Erik in the background of those three words, spelling out another three that she does not say. The poignancy of it is painful when if it were anyone else Charles would sympathise with them, but -- he can’t, this time. Not even to feel sorry for her that circumstances kept her from getting what, who, she wanted, that gave Erik to Charles instead. “The kennari also sent some herbs, for the pregnancy. Here.” When she hands them over to Charles she keeps her fingers conspicuously away from his palm, avoiding even the smallest touch. “Nothing else.”

“Thank you, Magda. Then Charles and I will take your leave,” Erik says, and he’s the first to open the door, though he holds it for Magda and Charles to exit first, his fingers brushing the small of Charles’ back as he passes after Magda.

They separate in the corridor, Magda heading back toward the festivities, but Erik touches his hand to Charles’ back again and ushers him in the other direction, wordlessly, heading together for the stairs and away from all the other people.

“I love you,” Charles says quietly, and he’s not sure if they’re his words or the ones Magda couldn’t, wouldn’t say to Erik.

Erik looks faintly surprised, but he just nods and lets his hand linger a while longer on Charles’ back before the narrow staircase forces them to fall into single file, Erik letting Charles lead the way even though he’s slower.

“Magda’s coming with you to the war?” Charles asks as they pass the third floor, and it’s easier to ask when he doesn’t have to look at Erik, just at the steps in front of him, stone after stone.

“Not the Svarti war,” Erik says. “As long as we’re technically Shaw’s troops, omegas can’t fight on the lines. But she will be Captain of her own battalion of Frjáls soldiers when we turn on the King.”

Charles hums an acknowledgement, hand resting lightly on the rail. “I hear it gets cold at night, in a war,” he says, the weight of what he’s not saying coming out in his words despite him; he can’t help but remember those images in Magda’s mind, before, of her and Erik, together; images she had hoped would be part of her future, too, that she has actively thought about making happen again.

“Every soldier has their own, individual, bed roll,” Erik says. He stresses the word ‘individual’ slightly; he hasn’t missed Charles’ meaning.

“All right.” No point pretending that wasn’t what he was asking, however indirectly. “I just … well.” Perhaps the staircase isn’t the place for this conversation, but it feels safer than asking when they’re in their bedroom together, taken out of that charged context and the place where they’ve spent so much time sleeping and having sex. “Well. Magda is very pretty.”

“She is,” Erik agrees, though Charles supposes it’s not as if he can do anything else, since he knows that Charles already knows that he’s fucked her before. “You’re not exactly bad-looking either, though.”

“Well. _There’s_ a compliment,” Charles says, feeling amused despite himself.

“You were fishing.” There’s an audible grin in Erik’s voice, even if he can’t see it.

If he’s honest it had more to do with his own lingering insecurity, but Charles decides not to say that to Erik. “So did you notice her scarf?” he asks instead, and finally they’re drawing to the top of the staircase. 

“The green one?”

“Did you notice how beautifully it matched my cloak?” Charles asks more pointedly, turning to look at Erik when he reaches the landing and blocking the way out of the staircase. It leaves him half a head taller than his husband for once, and he puts his hands on his hips under said cloak, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “It was _Lehnsherr green_.”

Erik catches the edge of the fabric between his fingers and examines it for a moment, then lets out a soft sigh. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to her about that yet. This was the first I’d seen of her since we discussed things, and it didn’t seem right to bring it up at the time. Not when she was so upset with you already.”

“Is there going to be a time she’s less upset by my existence?” Charles asks, but then immediately regrets it -- it’s petty, and spiteful, to dig it in when Erik is already saying he’ll do something about Magda’s expectations. “I’m sorry. It’s -- well, imagine that you knew someone else loved me, and you could hear it all in their mind like it was your own experience, all while feeling how much they hated you. It’s not nice.”

“It’s fine,” Erik says, and he presses his fingers to his forehead again, as if kneading out tension. “If I’m honest, Charles, I’m a bit drunk -- can we have this conversation in the morning? I will still discuss this with you, but I’m not doing a very good job at it right now.”

Charles sighs, but he can’t help but feel a bit fond, too. He steps back out of the stairwell to let Erik up onto the landing, linking his hand through Erik’s elbow again. “All right.”

But he goes to bed thinking about it, about Magda and Erik, all the same, a niggling thought that he can’t quite shake.

~*~

_Erik_

He wakes in the middle of the night. At first he thinks it might have been nothing -- a noise from outside, perhaps -- but when he opens his eyes Charles is propped up on his elbow and looking at him, his eyes dark in the golden firelight.

“Sorry,” Charles murmurs, voice soft in the quiet room, the only other sound the popping of the wood in the hearth and the crackling of flame. “I just. Um.”

The alcohol hasn’t entirely worn off; Erik still feels pleasantly warm and loose, but he’s piecing things together more easily than he was. “What is it?” he asks, rolling onto his side to face Charles more directly.

“I can’t sleep.” Charles shifts down until he’s on a level with Erik. “Promise not to laugh?”

Erik can’t imagine what it is; Charles is hardly a wilting flower, and it’s been a while since he’s phrased anything toward Erik in this manner -- so hesitantly. “All right.”

“I’m so horny I can’t sleep,” Charles says, and even in the dim light Erik can see him flush, his cheeks darkening with embarrassment. “And I just … I need you, and I’m sorry to wake you up, but could you please fuck me? You’ve not … well, you’ve not all week, and that’s okay, really, but … ”

Erik’s not quite sure what to say. Perhaps he ought to have known that Charles would ask, eventually, and have prepared some kind of explanation for him, but Erik doesn’t know what the explanation is, himself. Every time Charles has mentioned it Erik has felt a part of himself closing off and pulling back, wary. He still remembers how hollow he felt when he was fucking Charles before, during their months of silent fighting -- how different it had been, compared to when he’d known Charles cared. It had felt like he had to fuck Charles, he had felt … _obligated_ , as Charles’ alpha, to do so, and obligated due to a crushing sense of guilt over whatever it was he’d done to make Charles hate him. And that was the problem, really. Charles always wanted this, wanted Erik’s cock in his ass, and Erik, fresh from their reconciliation, had no way of knowing if Charles wanted to fuck him because he loved him, or if he just wanted Erik’s cock. Charles didn’t need to love Erik to fuck him; he’d made that perfectly clear. Over the past week, though, Charles has let them take their pleasure in other ways without one word of complaint until now, when he’s clearly desperate, and that has to mean something. 

But maybe Erik has been quiet for too long -- Charles’ expression is shifting, closing in on itself. “Never mind,” Charles murmurs, eyes flicking down and away. “I’ll be right back, then.” He moves as if to get out of bed, but Erik catches him around the waist and draws him back, pressing him against his chest, and before Charles can speak Erik brushes his lips against the back of his neck, his hand slowly smoothing down Charles’ side and over the rise of his hip. 

It’s gratifying, the way Charles immediately relaxes back against Erik’s body, bringing up his own hand to grip Erik’s arm where it lays over his side. “Please,” he says, dragging his blunt nails gently down Erik’s forearm.

Erik reaches his other hand down between their bodies, waiting for Charles to take the cue and bend one knee forward before he slips his fingers between Charles’ slick-wet ass cheeks and strokes his perineum, Charles’ hole clenching against his touch. It has to be enough, Erik thinks. He can’t keep pushing Charles away without losing him again. He has to believe that he can do this and that, when they’re finished, Charles will still be here.

He can feel the skin of Charles’ perineum tightening as Charles’ cock fills, tugging it forward, and Charles moans as Erik’s fingers rub over his entrance, pressing back against the touch and rubbing himself against Erik, twisting around at the waist so he can tug Erik down to kiss him, looping one arm round Erik’s neck to keep him there. “You make me feel so … ” Charles trails off, eyes slipping shut and his lips parting as Erik presses more firmly against his hole and his fingertips slide just inside Charles’ rim.

Charles is already soaking wet, and his hole allows Erik’s fingers to sink in to the knuckles easily enough; he must have been up for hours, thinking about this, wanting it. Now that he’s looking Erik can see that Charles’ nipples are damp and sore-looking, too, like he’s been pinching them, trying to stimulate himself. “So what?” Erik spreads his fingers inside Charles, stretching him out.

“Mmmm, so _good_ ,” Charles replies, his mouth pressed against Erik’s cheek, panting. “Gods, Erik, I never thought I could want an alpha, want anyone like I want you.”

Erik’s cock is finally hardening and it swells further when Charles talks like that, pressing against Charles’ ass. He guides one of Charles’ hands back to curl around his shaft, stroking him as Erik stretches Charles just far enough to let a third finger in, Charles’ body pulsing against the intrusion. Even after nine months of marriage, Charles is still tight, still squeezes around any penetration, close and intimate.

Charles’ hand works up and down Erik’s cock in a smooth rhythm despite the awkward angle, his thumb rubbing along the underside and teasing at the head. “Tell me you want me too,” Charles says, kissing Erik’s jaw.

Erik kisses him as his answer, catching his lower lip between his teeth and thrusting forward into Charles’ hand. He pulls his fingers out of Charles’ ass and wraps them around the base of his cock instead, taking over for Charles and stroking twice before guiding the head of his cock to Charles’ hole and pushing slowly in.

Inside Charles is slick and hot, his smooth channel clenching tightly around Erik as he slides deeper, rippling around him; Charles groans, deep and resonant, and moves his top leg further forward, trying to make more room for Erik to get inside him. It feels perfect, to be gloved so deeply inside Charles’ body, and when Erik bottoms out, hips snug against Charles’ buttocks, it’s like he can feel Charles’ pulse where they’re connected, throbbing around Erik’s cock.

Charles moans, breath rasping in his throat. “Move,” he demands, his chest heaving, cheeks flushed.

Erik doesn’t need to be told twice. He pushes one arm beneath Charles’ body and curls it across his chest for leverage, his other hand on Charles’ stomach as he begins to thrust into Charles’ ass, fucking his hole with hard, deep strokes. “You like it,” he murmurs into Charles’ ear. “You’re cock-hungry, aren’t you? Desperate for it.” 

There’s still enough burning-wine in his system that he says it before he can think better of it -- before he remembers how poorly Charles responded to such advances the morning after their wedding, when Erik had said all but the same thing and Charles recoiled in anger. But this time Charles just moans, clenching around Erik inside of him and leaning into Erik’s body, pliant and loose-limbed as Erik fucks him. It’s enough of a surprise that Erik’s cock jumps inside his hole, and Erik bites the skin just behind Charles’ shoulder, sucking a small perfect mark into existence. 

“Tell me how bad you need it,” Erik says, rubbing his thumb against one of Charles’ pebbled nipples. It’s still wet, but Erik ignores it -- it just makes it easier to roll over it without chafing. “Beg me to fuck you.”

Charles is making these sharp little sounds every time Erik pushes in, but they’re muffled when Charles turns his face into the pillow, shivering with pleasure. “No,” Charles says, and it would seem like a rejection if Erik couldn’t hear the challenge in Charles’ voice.

“Beg for it, or I won’t knot you.” It’s as empty a threat as it is a breathless one, they both know that; Erik is snapping his hips forward more forcefully now, cock already throbbing. “And I know you want that. You need an alpha to knot your hole and plug you up. You’d do anything for it.”

There’s a long pause where Erik doesn’t think Charles is going to do it, but then, “Please,” Charles says, tipping his head to the side and exposing the long pale column of his neck, unmarked. He’s so slick inside now that Erik can hear wet sounds on every thrust, Charles’ natural lubricant easing Erik’s way in and out of his narrow channel, pressing in and out of that sleek ring of muscle. “Please, Erik, fuck me hard, I need it!”

Erik practically shudders at that, and he takes the invitation of Charles’ bared throat without hesitation, marking him where people will see it. The base of his cock is hot and hypersensitive; he won’t be able to help but knot soon. He fucks up into Charles, cock swelling, until all of a sudden he has to force his way in only to find he can’t pull out anymore, and they’re tied together, the knot wedged deeply inside of Charles’ hole and Erik groaning as his cock spurts into Charles, filling him up with his come. 

Charles whines as the knot keeps growing inside of him, stretching him around it, and he wriggles against it until Erik tightens his hold around Charles’ chest to pull him in closer, holding him still and reaching down to tug on Charles’ cock. One, two, three strokes are enough -- Charles comes in Erik’s hand with a loud cry, and he clamps down hard around the knot as his body starts working it in rhythm, milking it of seed.

“Erik,” Charles murmurs, hormone-drowsy, as his body squeezes and ripples around Erik’s cock, pleasure jolting through Erik’s body.

Erik’s cock jerks again inside him, still leaking semen, and Erik presses a kiss to the back of Charles’ head, then his shoulder. His fears that Charles would disappear, or that Charles only wanted him for what he could offer sexually, are mostly assuaged. Charles is still here, with Erik’s name on his lips. Nothing has changed.

He rubs his hand over Charles’ round stomach and kisses his shoulder again, closing his eyes. It takes nearly forty-five minutes for the knot to go down, his cock pulsing out come for far longer than ever before. Charles dozes through it and Erik stays awake, combing his fingers through his hair until at last sleep claims him as well.

~*~

_Charles_

Raven arrives with the Spring, an image of ferocity clad in her finest armour and sat upon her white horse, a sprig of heather tucked in her hair the only thing that softens her appearance.

She rides into Ironhold with three Westchester guardsmen and an escort of Ironhold’s finest, her horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles, freshly revealed from under the melting snow. At first she looks like a stranger, her expression is so tense; but when she sees Charles standing in the arched doorway of the keep she makes a noise best described as a shriek and practically vaults off her saddle, dignity thrown aside in favour of running to his side to throw her arms around his neck, very much his little sister again. When she hugs him her hold is just a little too tight, her hands pressing hard into his body, almost clinging. 

“Gods, Charles, you’re massive!” Raven exclaims without letting go, and her mind is all relief and worry, amorphous and all-invasive despite Charles’ habitual efforts to block her out. “I feel like if I squeeze you you might just burst open.”

It’s so hard to block her out when Raven is feeling so loudly, but Charles does his best -- he promised her years ago, after all, and he tries to stick to it, even now when he could do with nothing more than to really _feel_ her beside him. 

“Hopefully not; I don’t think bursting would be good for the baby,” Charles says, but he’s smiling, clinging back to his sister’s lithe form as she sways him from side to side. “I’ve missed you so much -- it’s so good to see you, Raven.”

“You too,” she says, words muffled slightly against his neck. “I would have come sooner, but your weather is _awful_ \-- there was no getting through until March. I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to get here.”

Charles pulls back just enough to get a look at her, and it’s so strange for Raven to look just the same as she did the last time he saw her, almost a year ago. Her scales have the usual slight winter dullness to them that will slough off with the sun, her eyes and face and hair exactly the same, even her voice, so familiar and yet unheard for so long. It’s ironic, given Raven’s power, that Charles should be so struck by her permanence amid everything in his life that is now so utterly different. He’s puzzled by her vehemence, but in the end when she doesn’t elaborate he simply says, “It’s all right, really -- I’m just glad you’re here now. Now come on, let’s go indoors out of the chill.”

Raven nods, sharp and swift. “Yes. Let’s go.” 

She lets him lead her indoors, a servant taking several of the furs she’d layered on for warmth away to put aside in a guest room, long since prepared for her visit. “Are you hungry?” Charles asks, linking his arm through hers so they can walk side-by-side. “We can have something sent through from the kitchen and sit by the fire in the Great Hall.”

“Starving.” Raven’s arm tightens around his just slightly, before she says: “So -- where’s your husband?” Her voice is so bland it’s painful.

“Erik’s waiting for us in the Great Hall, with lunch.” Charles frowns, taking in the intense look in Raven’s eyes and the firm line of her mouth, both portending no good. “Raven, what’s wrong?”

She glances at Charles when he speaks, but doesn’t say anything until they’re out of earshot of any of the servants who are also using the corridor; as soon as they are she says, voice low and urgent, “Charles, we need to talk. Where can we go to be alone?”

“What is it?” Charles asks, his own heart beating faster in his chest. “Is something wrong?”

But Raven just shakes her head, joggling his elbow with her own. “Not here. Where can we go to talk?”

In her thick white furs and blue form, with her eyes as wide and intense as they are, Raven looks wilder and more savage than anyone Charles had imagined before living in the North, her red hair windswept and her right hand resting on the hilt of her dagger at her waist; she looks as if she’s going to do someone harm, and feels like it, too, her mind all jagged flashes of protectiveness and concern. There’s no real choice, so eventually Charles says, “We’ll go upstairs to mine and Erik’s rooms. Nobody will be up there at this time of day. Raven, what is this about?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there,” Raven says, tugging on his arm. “Now, let’s go, Charles.”

Charles can’t help but wonder what Erik is thinking right now as he and Raven go up inside the castle, heading for the top floor. Certainly when they don’t arrive for lunch Erik will start to question the delay, and come looking for them. But better to get Raven somewhere private for now and address whatever problem she’s so worried about. He can’t help but fret that they have been found out, that one of their allies has been caught and killed by Shaw, or worse, tortured for information that will lead the king to Charles, and to Erik.

He can feel his heart heavy in his chest as they climb, waiting for bad news and wishing he could refuse to hear it.

Even once the door to the outer room of his and Erik’s suite is shut behind them Raven doesn’t relax, pacing instead to the doorway of their bedroom and looking inside, checking for other people. Her expression shifts and becomes even tighter when she sees the broad expanse of their bed, and her movements become sharper too, like an artificer’s wind-up toy with its spring overwound. When she turns to look at Charles her eyes are fierce, more tiger-like than ever with their hot yellow gaze.

“I’ve come to take you home,” Raven says, blunt and determined, and she comes back over to stand by Charles, close enough to embrace if she looked less potentially violent. “I got your last letter but I couldn’t leave until after the winter. I’m so sorry, Charles. But I’m here now to take you back to Westchester with me. I have it all planned out.”

“What?” Charles’ voice comes out high and strangled, and he has to force himself to swallow and start over, every muscle in his body stiffening in surprise. “Raven, what -- you’re not serious! You can’t just come in here and take me back!”

Raven lifts her chin, her jaw tight and jutting out where her teeth are clenched. “I can and I will,” she says, putting her hand on her sword hilt. “I love you too much to leave you here to be used and manipulated by that Northern bastard. It was one thing to have you married off to some unknown Northern barbarian when I thought you would at least be able to control him mentally if things went badly, but when you can’t even do that, and the alpha is as twisted and manipulative as this -- !”

“But it’s not like that,” Charles interrupts, hand darting out to clutch at her wrist where she’s gripping her sword, forcing her to keep the blade sheathed. His breath is coming a little fast, his heart beating hard in his throat until he feels like he might have to swallow it back down. “I was wrong, Raven. I told Armando some of it to tell to you -- haven’t you seen him?”

“Charles, I came North as soon as the roads were clear enough to make it,” Raven says, frowning darkly. “Armando hadn’t made it back to the capital by the time I left. But honestly, you look frightened right now, and it doesn’t take being your sister to know you well enough to know that when you’re scared you lie - it’s what you do! It must be worse than I thought,though, if you’re frightened enough of your husband to lie to me about him manipulating you after what you wrote in your letter! You didn’t even write it in decent code!”

“Raven -- ”

“It’ll be hard to get away and travel fast when you’re this far along in your pregnancy, but I think we can do it if you follow my lead,” Raven continues, right over the top of his objection. Her entire body is tense and ready to move, and Charles loves her so fiercely right now, because he can see that she’s afraid, but she came for him anyway, utterly determined to save him, no matter the cost. “We have to go now, though, before he realises. Pack quickly.”

“Raven, I’m not going anywhere, I can’t,” Charles says, letting go of her wrist to embrace her instead, ignoring her reluctance to be restrained and pulling her in against his rounded body, his hand tucking her head in close and cheek-to-cheek. “I need to explain -- ”

He feels what is about to happen right before it does, the sensation of a familiar unreadable mind just outside, and Charles is in the perfect position to look over Raven’s shoulder at the bedroom door as it opens with a loud creak of winter-stiff hinges for Erik to come in.

Raven jolts in Charles’ arms and practically shoves him away as she spins on her heel to put herself between Charles and Erik, her back to Charles; there’s anger and concern pouring out of her like flame, too strong for Charles to ignore, and as he steps forward to try and place his hand on her back, to make her stop, Raven reaches to her waist and draws her sword.

There is a long, silent pause, while Charles thinks, _oh, no_ , and Erik just looks at Raven in surprise that quickly settles into resolve, the strong lines of his face a blank mask but for his eyes, his gaze flickering between Raven and Charles, calculating. But it’s only when Erik lifts his hand and makes a short, precise beckoning gesture, and nothing happens, that Charles realises what Raven has done, and recognises the blade in her hand.

Raven has brought Dragontooth, the hereditary sword of their house, which is carved from pommel to point from a single dragon bone, and not a scrap of metal.

“Back off,” she snaps, pointing the sword at Erik and drawing the matching dragonbone dagger, Fang, from her belt with her other hand, holding them on guard and ready to attack.

“Raven!” Charles says sharply, but she and Erik both ignore him.

Erik’s voice when he speaks is dry as sand. “Welcome to Ironhold,” he says, slipping his left hand into his pocket. “I see you’ve reacquainted yourself with my husband, Raven of Westchester.”

Charles can feel as well as see Raven bristle, her scales rippling across the back of her neck. “Stay away from _my brother_ ,” she snarls, without the blade so much as wavering in the air. Her other hand she puts behind her, carefully, wordlessly offering the dagger to Charles. “I’ll make you if I have to.”

“Will you? Really,” Erik withdraws his hand from his pocket; when he uncurls his fingers three metal spheres rise up to float above his upturned palm, rotating slowly. “Are these the manners of the House of Westchester? Or is my hospitality truly so poor?”

“Raven, _stop_ ,” Charles says, taking the dagger and tossing it behind him to clatter on the floor. Raven half-turns at the sound and gives him a betrayed look, but Charles continues before she can speak. “Raven, my letter to you is hugely outdated -- things have changed significantly here and you need to stop before you do something you’ll regret because of bad information! Please put your sword away. And Erik, stop encouraging her. She’s not going to hurt me or you.”

Erik gives Charles a faintly incredulous look and stays exactly where he is, as does Raven, whose mind is one big scoff as she turns her back on Charles again, staying firmly between him and Erik.

“Oh, for the Gods’ sake,” Charles snaps, and before Raven can do anything Charles steps forward and grabs her sword arm in both hands, wrenching it to the side so it’s braced across his body, the sword extended to the side now instead of pointing at Erik. “Erik and I have argued everything out and I was wrong about his intentions, so there’s no need to steal me back to Westchester, I’m perfectly safe here!”

“ _Steal you back?_ ” Erik echoes, his brows lifting even further. He sounds dry as a bone -- which means angry as a wild bull -- when he says, “I didn’t realise you were so eager to cause a war before you’ve even entered into your majority, little Duchess. You _are_ precocious.”

“Stop antagonising her,” Charles says, fighting Raven’s attempts to free her sword arm -- he has to use all of his weight to counter her enhanced strength, but he’s heavy enough to keep it more or less still when she’s reluctant to fight him too hard in case she hurts him. “Just stop, Raven. Let me explain everything.”

“Charles,” Raven says, and it’s almost defeated, concern blooming more strongly in her mind until it overpowers her anger, her struggles weakening. “Are you really trying to tell me you of all people were wrong enough that I should trust this bastard? Because I’ve never known you to be _that_ wrong.”

“It’s complicated,” Charles says, “but yes. Please. At least enough to put away Dragontooth.”

“All hail Raven of Westchester,” Erik mutters, “slayer of dragons.”

Charles wants to hit Erik in the head. “You’re not helping!” He steps around Raven to stand between the two alphas, folding his arms across his stomach and giving both of them a sharp look. “Now. In the interests of getting this over and done with, Raven, I’m going to just show you what’s happened telepathically. Thank you for coming for me, but it’s really not necessary.”

Charles sets two fingers to his temple, flagging the use of his Gift for Raven’s benefit as he transmits the facts of the events of the past six months since he wrote his letter to her into her mind, only vaguely aware of the blank look on her face as she takes in the new information all at once, the way her body sways, unattended for the time in which it takes him to show her. He strips it of emotion, just giving her the information and not the memories themselves -- too much else is tied up in that, from his feelings about Erik to their reconciliation afterward, his own pain and anguish and uncertainty, all things far too vulnerable to share directly.

Raven blinks, eyes refocusing, and though she’s still angry, still suspicious, she’s sheepish, too, at having come in so brashly instead of waiting to see what Charles had to say first.

“There,” Charles says, lifting an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side, quizzical and exasperated. “Now do you see why I asked you to wait?”

“How could I wait when I thought -- ” Raven starts, then stops, gaze flicking over to Erik. _When I thought you were being hurt and used like that,_ she finishes in her mind, the words loud enough for Charles to pick up despite his block against her.

“I love you dearly,” Charles says, and steps in enough to press a kiss to her cheek, relief coursing through him and making his body feel light by comparison. “Thank you for defending me. Even if it was ill-advised.”

Erik’s three steel spheres vanish back into his pocket. He doesn’t look as if his mood is much improved by the absence of Raven’s sword pointed at his chest, but at least he isn’t overtly threatening anyone anymore. “If you can bear my company, luncheon is going cold.”

With that he turns and goes, letting the door of the bedroom fall shut behind him.

“Well, that went well,” Charles says with a sigh, and Raven punches him in the shoulder, hard. “Ow!”

“You could have stopped me at any time during that,” she says, voice tight; when he looks back at her her cheeks are dark navy, her eyes narrowed at him and her shoulders hunched a little towards her ears. “Putting aside the fact that I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him even after your little love note to your husband that you’ve put in my head, you could have dropped that information on me at any time and instead you let me make an ass of myself. Thanks.”

“Given that I’m not supposed to read your mind at all unless there’s no choice, I thought that talking it out loud would be more welcome.”

“Oh yeah, because it’s not as though you went and did it anyway after it was already too late,” Raven says, but it has less heat in it now. She sheathes the sword with a long, sleek sound of bone on leather, walking over to where the dagger fell on the floor and picking it up to sheathe that, too. “Do you really trust him, Charles?”

Charles nods, before he’s even had to think about it, before he has time to question himself. “Yes, I do.”

Raven huffs, mouth twisting, but when she comes back over to where he’s standing she links her arm with his, tugging him in against her side. “All right,” she says, jerking her head toward the door. “I guess we’d better find out if I think he’s trustworthy, too.”

~*~

The most frustrating part of it is that under other circumstances Charles knows that Erik and Raven would like each other, perhaps even be good friends. They’re both very no-nonsense, practical people, with strong moral codes and fierce loyalties -- but right now their stubbornness is what’s driving each of them to tense and bristle around the other, watching each other like hawks waiting for the next sign of aggression.

In the end he decides after they’ve eaten that the only thing for it is to separate them and take Raven on a tour of Ironhold, showing her around the cold Northern castle that he has come to call his home.

“And that mountain over there is the volcano Svartnorðeldfjall,” Charles says from where he’s leant between two merlons on the ramparts, pointing to the northwest at the crag-topped mountain sitting innocuously between its brothers, its slopes snow-capped and innocent looking. “There are some amazing lava fields out in the countryside where the volcano has erupted and left fresh rock behind. The landscape here is so strange.”

“Because that makes perfect sense, building your castle so close to a volcano,” Raven says dryly, following his line of sight. “Doesn’t it scare you?”

Charles smiles and they walk on along the wall top slowly, arm-in-arm. The soldiers on the wall ignore them save to get out of their path, but Charles can hear the amusement at seeing the two of them swathed in furs when everyone else is already in their lighter Spring wear. “There are so many bizarre aspects to the land up here, it’s hard to get worked up about them any more,” he says, and Raven says, “Oh, yes, your sketches! I loved them,” as they walk around between the mountain and the castle wall, through the tunnel in the rock that completes the circuit.

“Is it always so cold?” she asks when they emerge on the other side, on the catapult walk, and Charles laughs.

“If you think this is cold, you should have been here two months ago. I didn’t go outside for days at a time and the sun didn’t come up at all for a month.”

“That’s insane!” Raven looks truly shocked, her eyebrows rising high on her forehead and eyes wide. “And you want to stay here?”

“It may not be Westchester, but there’s a lot to love here,” Charles says, with a small, private smile that he doesn’t quite manage to hide from Raven’s knowing, mildly exasperated look.

“Uh huh,” she says, her body taut alongside his, newly muscled since he saw her last, over a year ago. He can feel it even through the furs she wears to keep warm, the new strength in her arms, built of hard training in the capital. “I guess that’s why you’re pregnant out of your heat cycle.”

Charles flushes a hot, vivid red. “Raven!”

“I’m just saying, that doesn’t happen accidentally,” Raven continues, looking like she’s enjoying this far too much. “I mean, he’s a bastard but he’s good-looking at least. I can understand the physical urge, even if the rest leaves somewhat to be desired.”

“You’re awful.” Everything in Charles is just begging for her to stop, silently wanting to sink into the ground and get away from this conversation. “I’m the size of a whale, you should be nice to me when I’m carrying your future nephew or niece.”

“No kidding,” Raven says, still grinning, and shifts, her form melting into an imitation of Charles, right down to the ring on his finger and the blush he can feel on his face. Looking at himself from the outside Charles can see just how rotund he is now, how different from the way she used to portray him; even his ass looks bigger, rounded out and plump with pregnancy. “I’m Charles, and once Kurt marries me off I’ll just have to live with my marital responsibilities and tough it out,” she says in his own voice, though exaggerated in tone and seriousness. “I’ll just have to lie back and think of Genosha while my alpha gets on with it. It’s an omega’s lot in life.” Raven pauses there and winks at him, lewd and atrocious on his face. “Looks like that wasn’t a problem.”

“I hate you so much,” Charles says, knowing he’s scarlet now from mortification, and Raven just laughs, keeping his shape even as she tugs him along to look at the catapults, admiring them just the way Cain did when he brought Charles here. It feels like a strange circle to close, but as Charles points out the road far below and the bridge beyond, with its attendant waterfall and precipitous drop, he’s happy that she’s there with him, to experience anew the things he wanted to share with her when he first saw them.

“Charles,” Erik’s familiar voice says from somewhere behind them, later, when they’re standing just outside the smithy doors, watching Forge casting armour plating and hammering it out into smooth sheets. “It’s been long enough now; you’re going to catch cold.” And then, a second later, more uncertain: “...Charles?” 

It’s impossible to resist, especially given years of practice. Charles and Raven turn in concert, swivelling to look at Erik behind them, and together they both say, in Charles’ voice, “Yes?”

Charles has never seen Erik caught off his guard -- and perhaps it wouldn’t be entirely fair to say he’s off his guard even now, though his gaze is flickering between them quickly enough to betray confusion, his posture tense. There’s nothing to tell between Charles and Raven, her wearing Charles’ form as easily as a glove despite his changed body; eventually though Erik concedes enough to say, “There are two of you.”

“Yes,” Charles says, but Raven says, “You did know what Raven’s Gift is beforehand. She shapeshifts. I’m one of her favourite forms.”

“That doesn’t make it less strange to behold,” Erik says, his gaze settling on Raven, then Charles, then Raven again, as if unsure whose eyes he should meet.

“Having trouble?” Charles asks, amused, and he can feel Forge watching them from inside the smithy, his own amusement ringing out to Charles’ mind just like his hammer rings against steel. It’s too funny to own up to being the true Charles, so instead he just says, mouth twitching, “Don’t worry. Most people struggle to tell which of us is real when we do this. It’s like being twins, only not all of the time.”

“I’m sure I can recognise my own husband when I see him,” Erik says, and if Charles isn’t mistaken there’s a note of disapproval in his voice.

“Oh? Do go on,” Raven says. She’s grinning too, tilting her head to one side in just the way that Charles does. Their furs are similar enough not to give them away, and they envelop their winter clothes, so the only way for Erik to tell them apart is intuition.

Erik steps forward, closing the distance between them until he’s standing close enough to lean over and examine their faces one after the other, looking at the quirk of Charles’ lips and the faint flush that rises in Raven’s cheeks, comparing them side by side until at last he slips his arm around Raven’s waist, smirking as he presses a kiss to the corner of her - Charles’ - mouth. “As I said.”

“Well that’s disheartening,” Charles says, and he can’t decide how he feels, torn between laughter and mild offence as Raven shifts back into herself within the curve of Erik’s arm, grinning broadly as Erik lets go of her like he’s been burned, taking a sharp step back.

“Very impressive, Westchester,” Erik says at last, the compliment almost begrudging, but it’s a compliment nonetheless. The look on his face had been priceless in that first moment of shocked surprise, followed by an attempt at covering up his stunned expression that is less than entirely successful.

Charles lets himself laugh, then, walking forward to stand comfortably within Erik’s space, looking up at his husband as he slides his arm around Erik’s back. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Erik says, his body and demeanour still rather stiff. “I understand it’s rare for the Gift to present so strongly in the South.”

“It’s more common in the nobility,” Charles says, curling his fingers into the far side of Erik’s belt. “Because of the breeding, or should I say, inbreeding. It’s been concentrated compared to the rest of the population.”

“Were your parents Gifted as well?”

Charles shrugs. “No. Our paternal Grandfather as I understand was quite a strong empath, and our maternal Grandmother had a very minor kinetic ability. Here and there, really.” Charles wonders why Erik’s asking, but only until he catches Erik glancing at his belly, something speculative in his gaze. Charles can’t help but quirk a smile, and he glances at Raven, sharing his amusement at his husband. “Now, how long do I have before I catch that cold?”

“It’s hardly an exact science,” Erik says, “but I’d prefer it if you came inside. I can have some kafei sent to the library if you want to sit by the fire.”

Erik’s been overbearing for the past two months, and sometimes it drives Charles mad, but knowing that it’s driven by his instinct to protect Charles makes it seem fairly sweet, as well, when Charles is in a good mood. So this time he allows it to pass without comment, indicating to Raven that she should follow when Erik tucks his arm around Charles’ waist in turn and draws him in close to his side, tugging him along in the direction of the castle door. Erik is warm, and big, and Charles doesn’t even want to complain right now, just leans his head against Erik’s shoulder for a moment before going inside as Erik wants.

It’s embarrassing to wake up later in his armchair in the library where he had evidently fallen asleep to find his husband and his sister playing chess against one another and insulting each other, half-seriously and half in jest as they take pieces from the board, only for both of them to pause to look at Charles and tell him firmly to go back to sleep.

~*~

Raven decides to stay at Ironhold until the child is born, which is a godsend, really -- with less than a month left before he’s due Charles is tired constantly and cranky almost as often, feeling more like a child’s roly poly toy than a human being. Raven is comforting and cranky back at him in turns, soft when he needs it and mean when he needs someone to tell him to stop being an ass. Between her and Erik Charles is left alone only when he’s in a truly stinking mood, sulking over -- usually -- very little at all.

“I just want it out now,” he complains to Erik after she’s been there a fortnight, sitting down in the low rocking chair that’s been set in the corner of their bedroom beside the antique wooden cot that’s now there, awaiting the new arrival. “I hate being this size. I hate that I’m already _lactating_. I feel disgusting.”

“You’re not disgusting.” Erik has said that to him enough times by now that it comes out sounding tired and recited. He’s sat on the bed, manipulating a pile of raw silver to form a mobile for the baby, decorated with tiny filigree birds and stars. It’s fascinating to watch, and normally Charles would be intrigued to the point of getting up and going to sit beside him to see it more closely, but right now he’s feeling too grumpy to move.

“You don’t even sound like you mean it any more,” Charles grumbles, knowing even as he says it that it’s unfair. He sinks lower in the chair, setting himself to rocking gently back and forth with one foot. “I’m just this enormous lump of blubber. You could roll me across the floor.”

“Only because I’ve told you a thousand times,” Erik says, glancing up from his metalwork just long enough to frown in Charles’ direction. “If you refuse to believe it, then there’s not much else I can say.”

“Ugh.”

Erik snorts a laugh and flicks his fingers, sending three silver stars across the room to orbit around Charles’ head. They shimmer and shine in the light, about the right size to fit snugly into Charles’ palm, each edge smooth and rounded. Charles reaches up to pluck one from the air and it comes willingly, settling into his hand.

“This is beautiful work,” he says as he turns it over to look at the detailed bas relief patterns on the silver, flowers and animals and trees and birds, all made without toolmarks of any kind by Erik’s Gift. “I didn’t know you did such fine manipulation.” 

Erik looks up for real this time, setting the bird he’d been working on aside, and nods toward Charles. “Take off your ring.”

Charles does, sliding it free from his hand and pinching it between his finger and thumb, looking more closely. He so rarely takes it off that he’s surprised now to see the words engraved on the inside of the band, in a tiny copy of Erik’s handwriting, bold and angular. It’s a strange sudden warmth to realise that Erik has left something there for him, something secret -- it certainly wasn’t there when he first got the ring, when they were married. 

He squints at it, trying to read it, but it takes him a moment to realise that it’s not in the common tongue. “What does it say?” he asks.

“It’s from the Frjáls holy book,” Erik says, settling his hands in his lap, fingers laced together. “ _’How shall I withhold my soul so that it does not touch on yours?’_ ” A pause, as if Erik were going to say more, but he falls silent instead.

“Oh,” Charles says, softly, and feels almost -- embarrassed, somehow, at the honesty of it, at Erik having chosen this for him, and warmer still with affection, his grumpiness banished by a kind of radiating delight that starts somewhere behind his sternum, glowing from inside of him like it might spill out at any moment. He rocks forward in the chair, using the momentum to help him up onto his feet, and makes his way over to Erik to kiss him sweetly.

When he breaks away Charles says, quiet and sincere, “That’s lovely. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Erik’s expression is strangely guarded, and he tilts his face away as he takes the ring from Charles to slip it back onto Charles’ finger.

Charles sits down beside him on the bed, carefully moving aside the pieces of the mobile. “I wish I could read your mind,” he says, leaning his head against Erik’s shoulder. “I know it’s just your Gift, but it would be -- I would like that. I suppose it’s good to know you would, too. A lot of people wouldn’t. Raven doesn’t, really.”

Erik is still for several seconds, and then he turns his face toward Charles, pressing a kiss to Charles’ hair, grip tightening around Charles’ hand with sudden intensity. It’s almost a minute before he says: “I’m going down to spar with your sister.”

“All right.” Charles considers how he feels, then says, “I’ll come and watch, if someone will bring me a chair.”

They set up for the session in the Great Hall, the tables cleared to either side to open up a large enough space for a swordfight. Charles takes a seat on the far side of a table at Raven’s insistence, keeping three feet of furniture between him and the battle.

Raven is dressed in her simplest clothes, light breeches and a pale shirt; she’s shortened her hair until it lies close against her skull, too short to grip or get in her way. “How do you want to do this, North?” she asks Erik, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet.

“Weapons only,” Erik says, reaching into the pocket of his tight-fitted black fighting gear to withdraw the metal spheres he keeps on him at all times, banishing them to roll across the table where Charles sits; Charles scoops them up in his hand before they can fall off the edge. “No powers.” Erik keeps his hip and ankle daggers, though, just as Raven keeps Fang.

It must be strange, Charles thinks, for Erik not to be able to sense Raven’s sword as she draws it, the dragonbone blade dull white in the firelight of the windowless hall -- he must be so used to fighting alphas with metal weapons, to being able to control that cutting edge, that Charles imagines it could be quite worrying, to be confronted with an uncontrollable blade. It doesn’t show on Erik’s face, though, as he takes up a ready position six feet in front of Raven, both of them standing en guard and waiting to see who will make the first move.

It’s Raven who breaks first, darting in toward Erik on light feet with sword outstretched and already swinging. Erik blocks her attack easily - it was a test on Raven’s part, anyway, just as Erik’s next move is. They play with each other like that for a while, the offensives intended for nothing more than to suss out weaknesses or patterns in the other’s style.

Maybe it’s just because he’s sat far enough away to see the bigger picture, but Charles picks up on Raven’s tell after just a few minutes of this back-and-forth, though he’s not sure Erik has just yet. Raven’s left heel bounces, winding up strength right before she goes on the offensive, her hip lowering on that side before she pushes off. She’s very fast, her natural form lithe and lightning quick in response to Erik’s attacks, but Erik has a greater reach and more natural muscle, his swings carrying much more momentum.

Erik uses the entire space of the hall, not failing to take advantage of a single inch, with the exception of a rather wide berth around where Charles is sitting which they both scrupulously avoid. He’s tiring Raven out, Charles realises after a while; Raven might be faster, but Erik’s legs are longer, and his endurance is greater -- he’s leading her around the whole room until exhaustion sets in.

“Is this a fight or a scenic tour?” Raven pants between clashes, grinning, her teeth gleaming white in her blue face. “I can put a lead rein on you if you want to go for a run.”

“Battles don’t take place in fencing suites, Westchester,” Erik says, returning her grin and attacking with such a sudden ferocity that Raven has to practically flatten her body against the ground to avoid it. “What _are_ they teaching you in school?”

Raven is bent over backward so that only Charles can see her expression shift into something sharp and victorious, and there’s no time even to react himself before she’s springing up inside Erik’s guard, her sword swinging around in a tight arc to slash the very tip across his cheek, cutting a fine bleeding line in its wake. “That,” she says, close enough to kiss, and raising her sword for another attack.

But before she can move, Erik has brought his sword toward them from behind, halting the swing just short of decapitating them both to tap Raven lightly on the back of the neck. Even from here, Charles can see his arched brow. “Dead,” Erik states.

There’s a long moment of silence, broken only by their heaving breaths.

“Damn,” Raven says, lowering her blade but staying carefully where she is, since the sharp edge of Erik’s sword is still touching her nape. “Good fight.”

Erik nods in acknowledgment. “Next time,” he says, “spend less effort show-boating and more on staying alive. Charles, did you catch her tell?”

“You bounce before you strike,” Charles says, raising his voice to make sure Raven can hear him. He’s sat with his feet up on a second chair, comfortable and entertained enough by their fight to be in a good mood. “Your left hip drops. If Erik had kicked you there then he could have had you on the ground dead long before he did.”

Raven frowns, but Erik is smiling at him approvingly.

“It would be interesting to see how using your Gifts would change things,” Charles continues, trying to think how that would play out, when he feels a sudden cramp in his lower back that makes him wince. “Ow.”

“What is it?” Erik sheaths his sword in a single, quick movement, not even entirely using his hands, all his attention immediately redirected toward Charles. “Is it the baby?”

“I don’t know. It might just be phantom contractions,” Charles says, leaning forward so he can rub his knuckles against his spine and back. “Ugh. I feel really crampy, like I ate something that was a bit off. I’ve been feeling weird all day, though.”

Erik crosses to where he is sitting and places a hand on the curve of his stomach, as if he could somehow tell if Charles were truly in labour just by feeling. “Can you read anything in the baby’s mind?”

“Oh, yes,” Charles says sarcastically, wincing again, “it’s thinking, ho hum, time to be born,” and when Raven comes over to stand by them he takes the hand she offers him and gets to his feet, filling in the space between the two of them, his two alphas, stood close in triumvirate. “No. I just feel crampy.”

“I’ll have a physiker sent up to our rooms,” Erik says. “You should lie down.”

“If he’s going into pre-labour then it’s going to be a long time yet,” Raven says, shaking her head. “There’s no point Charles going and lying down now, it could be twelve hours before he even has to start pushing. We’d be better off going for a walk.”

“I don’t want him going outside,” Erik says, almost snappishly. “He’s not having my baby in the middle of some _field_ somewhere.”

“Only around Ironhold,” Charles says, shifting uncomfortably as his insides cramp. “And Hank did say that things would take some time once they got started.” 

Though he makes the words sound calm, he’s panicking a bit on the inside, his heart beating a little overfast, his breaths a little too wobbly. Now that it’s actually happening, he’s not sure he does want the baby out after all, given how dangerous labour can be and how little he actually knows about what to expect. “Do you want to walk with me?” he asks, suddenly, looking at his husband; he’d feel better if Erik did, but he feels foolish for needing to have that alpha scent around him to help him stay calm.

“Yes. All right.” Erik doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s foolish. His hand shifts to settle at the center of Charles’ back, warm and steadying. “If you think that would help.”

“We’ll all go,” Raven says, and links her arm with Charles’ on the opposite side, smiling at him even though he can feel that she’s worried, too, thinking about him going through this. Between the two of them Charles feels less panicked, though, and they all go outside to walk along the castle walls and grounds, pausing at frequent intervals for Charles to shake off the unease and discomfort as his body prepares for labour.

The baby has realised something is going on, but it doesn’t know enough to be worried, is simply curious and fretful at being shifted around, kicking and shoving around as it’s jostled and making it more uncomfortable to be Charles. And if he didn’t know Erik as well as he does Charles would think his husband entirely unaffected by it all, but whenever Charles has to stop he can see Erik’s nostrils flare slightly and the wild glint in his eyes that tells him Erik is just as agitated as Charles is, only he’s hiding it better. Erik’s hands on Charles are more possessive and grabby than usual, instinct keeping him close to his vulnerable omega and making it more impressive that he doesn’t snap and snarl at Raven, another alpha, for being so near Charles.

Raven is probably the calmest of the three of them, despite being youngest; she’s projecting calm at Charles, along with images of him with a baby in his arms, trying to remind him of the end goal. She rubs his arm and doesn’t try to intrude on Erik’s space, just jokes and tells stories as they walk, trying to distract Charles.

By the time it’s mid-afternoon and already getting dark it’s clear that Charles is definitely in labour, but he only concedes far enough as to go indoors when Erik all but forces him, and lets himself be driven upstairs by a husband who is behaving more like a sheepdog right now than a man.

“All right, go fetch Doctor Austmann and Hank,” Charles says to Erik once he’s been shepherded right into their bedroom, Raven still standing attendance and squeezing his hand reassuringly. He’s started to feel the occasional contraction, every twenty minutes or so, strong and frightening. “I give up.”

“You’ll be fine,” Erik says, and helps Charles sit down, then kisses his forehead before he goes, Charles’ wedding ring warming around his finger. 

Charles attempts what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but feels immediately fretful once Erik is out of sight. He knows it’s his own instinct telling him to keep Erik close, but it doesn’t make it any easier to quash.

“It’ll be okay.” Raven sits down beside him, perching on the table beside the rocking chair Charles is sat in and extending her foot to rest on the arm of the chair, setting it in motion and keeping it gently going, back and forth. “Omegas and females of all kinds do this all the time.”

Charles rests his hand on her ankle, rubbing his thumb over the bone. “I know.”

“And you’re sick of being a whale, anyway.”

“I know that, too.”

“Hank’s going to have his hands all over and right up your ass,” Raven says, and laughs when Charles makes a sound of outrage and smacks her hard, all the blood rushing to his face as he rides through another contraction, embarrassed beyond belief and so glad that she’s there that he can’t bring himself to tell her to go away.

It’s several minutes before Doctor Austmann, Hank and Erik return together, Hank out of breath and red in the face from climbing up all the stairs, carrying a wide wooden birthing stool. Erik goes immediately to Charles’ side, standing just behind him with one hand combing through his hair.

“How are you feeling?” Austmann asks, directing Hank to place the stool to one side and putting his hand on Charles’ forehead. “Erik said you are having contractions? How regular?”

Charles leans his head into Erik’s touch, not meaning to pull away from the physician but needing the comfort and strangely reluctant to be touched by anyone besides his alpha. “Every twenty minutes or so, I think. I’ve been cramping since lunch.”

“Things are progressing quite quickly, then. Good,” Austmann says, removing his hand and stepping back. “You’ve got good sturdy hips, very broad, so this will be easier for you than for some. If you were built like an alpha it would be much more trouble. Erik couldn’t get a baby out of him if he tried, narrow as he is at the hips.”

“He can still have the next one, instead of me,” Charles says. He tries to laugh, but ends up gritting his teeth against another contraction instead, and it comes out a bit strangled.

“Yes, all right,” Erik says, conciliatory, kissing Charles’ brow again before brushing a lock of Charles’ hair out of his face. “Whatever you say.”

“For the time being there’s little to do but wait until they come closer together,” Austmann says, setting his bag down on the table by Raven’s hip. “I will be talking Hank through what to do, but I’ll be here the entire time. Alphas will need to leave when I say so.”

“There’s nothing he has that I haven’t seen,” Erik protests, frowning. “There’s hardly a need to preserve his modesty from me.”

Austmann scowls at him, bushy eyebrows drawing together like angry hedgehogs on his face. “Have you ever seen him push a baby out of a hole that is currently the size of your thumb? No? Still wish to be attracted to that hole after? Then you will go when I say.”

Charles feels as though he must be scarlet with embarrassment, and he turns to Erik, looking up at him to say, “I’d really rather you waited with Raven.”

Erik is visibly conflicted, but he nods at last, lips pressed into a thin line. “Only when absolutely necessary,” he says.

“Very well. You may wish to wait outside for a moment, then, while Hank checks to see how far he is dilated,” Austmann says, and when Erik shakes his head firmly, says, “You, sister, may be sensible enough to wait outside.”

Raven nods, clearly deciding discretion is the better part of valor. “I’ll be back in a minute, Charles.” She hops to her feet and ducks out into the corridor, where Charles can feel her sitting outside the door, not straying far.

Hank directs Charles to strip off his breeches and lay down on the bed on his side, and Charles smothers down his embarrassment enough to do as he’s told, grateful when Erik comes to sit on the bed and draws Charles’ torso into his lap, tugging Charles’ arms around his waist and watching Hank with suspicious eyes when he asks Charles to draw one leg forward to expose his hole. 

When Hank says, “I, um, I’m just going to insert a finger so I can check your, um, cervix,” Erik growls, deep and low, a rumbling vibration that Charles can feel run through his entire body. Hank freezes as though he’s about to be attacked, a look of fear on his face -- Erik smells like he might attack at any moment, his natural alpha scent strengthening as his lip curls to expose his teeth.

“It’s fine,” Charles says, tucking his head deeper into Erik’s lap and embracing him more tightly, reminding Erik of why they’re doing this. 

“Find his cervix, and tell me how it feels,” Austmann says to Hank, and he sounds so calm it’s hard not to snap at him.

“Okay,” Hank says, sounding just as worried as Charles, and comes closer again.

Charles tries to keep his breathing slow and steady as Hank touches him, but it’s so strange to be touched there by someone not Erik and so hard to stay calm when he can feel Erik’s constant, subvocal growling running through him that it’s hard not to clench up to keep Hank out, one of Hank’s fingers sliding into his ass where Charles’ body has already slicked the way for his labour. It moves, too, strange and awkward, feeling around deep inside of Charles until the tip catches somewhere Charles has never felt before.

“His, um, cervix feels soft,” Hank reports over his shoulder, finger moving carefully in that intimate space. “I can get my finger through it easily. The, um, baby’s head is facing the right way. I can feel it in there.”

“Good,” Austmann says, and he sounds pleased. “Now take your finger out before the Duke bites you.”

Charles manages not to make an embarrassed sound when Hank almost yanks his finger out, but it’s a close call. Erik immediately picks up Charles’ breeches and drapes them over his naked behind, hiding him from view.

“It’ll most likely be an hour or two yet before you need to start pushing,” Austmann says from somewhere behind Charles. “The best thing for it is to relax now, move if you feel you need to, and try to stay calm.”

Charles spends most of the next three hours lying just where he is, in Erik’s lap, groaning as his body contracts and letting Erik stroke his hair, trying to ignore the way Erik’s hand shakes, just a little. Raven comes back in but is soon sent to help Hank fetch hot water and linens, so she is in and out of the room, coming over whenever she can to hold Charles’ hand and tell him more stories.

By the time Austmann is satisfied that Charles is ready to start pushing, Hank has felt inside of him four more times, Charles has felt ready and impatiently having painful contractions every three or four minutes for the past quarter of an hour, and Erik is extremely unhappy about being asked to leave despite his earlier acquiescence.

“No,” he says, hands curling in Charles’ shirt and around the back of his head, holding him in place. “I’m not leaving him. He’s in pain!”

“You have to,” Austmann replies firmly, over the sound of Charles groaning. His entire lower body feels like it’s drawing in on itself, and he can see his belly rippling and pulling in tight around the baby, pushing down. “You can’t stay in here -- there are things that are not for alphas, and this is one of them. I’ve already let you stay longer than I would prefer, Erik. Now go outside and wait!”

It’s only when Charles says, “Go, I’ll be fine, please,” that Erik’s grip relaxes, and he looks down at Charles helplessly, unhappily.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and when Charles nods, grimacing, he eases himself out from under Charles’ prone body, then leans down to kiss him fiercely on the mouth, careless of everyone watching. “I’ll be right outside. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Charles says, and almost screams when the next contraction hits.

It feels like it takes an age before Hank is levering Charles up from the bed and helping him over to the birthing stool, the horseshoe shaped seat giving Hank room to reach in and for the baby to come out. And then --

Charles doesn’t really remember it, afterwards, other than an endless agony of pushing, his body feeling like it’s rending itself apart as his waters break and the baby moves down through his loosened channel, pressing everything else out of the way as he pushes, and pushes, and pushes, screaming while Hank massages his belly to encourage the muscles and everything in him spreads wider and wider and wider.

And to think -- eleven months ago he thought it hurt to be fucked for the first time.

Charles is barely aware of it when the baby’s head breeches, but Hank makes an excited noise and pulls, and Charles screams as the baby comes all the way out, the rest of it slipping free all in one go. It’s just a relief, panting and leaning against Doctor Austmann as somewhere he hears the first sound of his baby coughing, then crying, a loud, gusty sound echoing in the bedroom.

He opens his eyes, drenched in sweat from head to foot and not caring that he’s naked, not caring that his stomach is still contracting, working on loosening the afterbirth which is yet to come -- because Hank is coming back with his baby, wiped mostly clean and still crying as Hank sets it -- her, it’s a girl -- in his arms, heavy and real and cuddling in close against his chest, her cries turning into sobs before finally quieting.

Her head is covered in tight little curls of slicked-down, bright green hair.

“Oh,” Charles says, astonished and disbelieving and so incredibly happy he thinks he might explode, and he starts to cry, not pain this time but joy.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote on the inside of Charles' ring is a line by Spicy's favourite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke.


	12. Twelve

_Erik_

Erik has paced up and down the corridor listening to Charles scream for what feels like days. Some hours ago he got fed up and ended up running up and down the long, long flight of stairs at the end of the hall, down to the ground and back up, over and over again until his legs were trembling and his lungs ached with every breath. And Charles was still screaming.

Knowing it’s natural is not the same as _being_ there, able to hold Charles’ hand in his and keep his sweaty hair out of his face, to smell his scent and know for certain that whatever is going on isn’t killing him. When Erik closes his eyes he can see blood on the wooden floor, Charles’ skin pale and cold, an infant gray and shrivelled and still. Such has been the fate of too many omegas to count. Erik should have stayed. More fool him, letting himself be ousted by that aging beta physiker and his quivering puffin of an assistant.

Raven watches him without speaking; probably, she knows that drawing his attention to herself wouldn’t result in anything good. They get along better than they did, but Erik doesn’t have to like the notion of another alpha in such proximity, especially given the circumstances, with every part of his instinct railing at him to force her out.

He’s leaning against the wall, brow and one forearm pressed overhead against cold stone, when the door to their suite finally opens.

Erik doesn’t wait to hear whatever it is Hank McCoy is planning to say; he shoulders past him and strides through the front room, back into the bedchamber, half-expecting to see blood and half --

 _Charles._ He’s in bed, just as Erik left him, only now he’s swaddled in furs with a tiny _something_ cradled in his arm, red-cheeked, sweaty and exhausted but absolutely radiant.

“Erik,” Charles says. His voice is a gravelled rasp, but his smile … he lifts his free hand and beckons Erik towards him, fingers curling in invitation. Erik doesn’t hesitate, he just goes. Charles smells different again, the scent of pregnancy fading and being replaced by … something else Erik can’t identify, but likes. He presses a quick kiss to Charles’ temple before turning his gaze down to the child in Charles’ lap.

It’s … red, and small, and nestled comfortably in a mess of linens and furs, but even like this Erik can see the sea-green colour of its hair plastered against its head. Erik doesn’t dare touch it -- it’s enough to brush his fingertips against the furs it’s bundled in, to feel the warmth of its soft exhale against his skin. He chokes and quickly brushes two tears from his cheek before they can fall and wake the baby, trying to wrangle himself back under control. His free hand on Charles’ thigh squeezes tight.

“She’s a girl, a beta or omega,” Charles murmurs, leaning against Erik’s side with a sigh. He looks tired, wrung out, but he’s exuding happiness so strongly that Erik thinks Austmann and Hank _have_ to know he’s a telepath if they have any sensitivity whatsoever. “And she must be Gifted. Look at her hair.”

“She’s beautiful,” Erik says, shifting just enough to sit half-on the bed next to Charles, his voice still sounding thick to his own ears. The baby’s tiny hands are in fists, moving against the swaddling even in her sleep. He can’t take his eyes off her, even though she’s too young for him to tell if she has Charles’ mouth or Erik’s nose. She’s perfect.

“Do you want to hold her?”

Erik’s not sure he even needs to respond to that question. Charles passes the baby over slowly, careful not to wake her, moving over enough in their bed to allow Erik to sit properly and lean back against the headboard. The child is surprisingly heavy considering her size. Erik is mesmerised by small details: her miniature fingernails, the shell-like sculpture of her ear, the fan of long, dark green lashes laid against her cheek.

Charles tilts his head in against Erik’s shoulder, looking down at her in his arms for a moment before adjusting Erik’s hand behind her head, supporting it. “There.” He smiles at Erik, warm and delighted and exhausted, and Erik would kiss him if it the sudden movement wouldn’t mean disturbing their daughter’s slumber.

“What should we name her?” Erik asks, stealing another quick glance at Charles before his gaze is drawn back to the baby once more. She yawns, scrubbing one fist against her face, and for a moment he thinks she’s waking up, but then she settles again.

“Mmm, well,” Charles says, “I was thinking -- perhaps Lorna? After my grandmother.”

“Lorna,” Erik echoes, trying the name out on his tongue, feeling the way it forms in his mouth. “I like it.” He smiles down at her, at the baby Lorna. “She’ll need a second name as well, a Frjáls one, but we don’t have to choose that now.”

“All right.” Charles hums, rubbing his face against Erik’s sleeve, but Erik is looking at the way Lorna has turned her face into his chest in just the same way, nuzzling against him. “Oh,” Charles says. “You’d better give her back to me.”

“Why?” Erik asks, feeling strangely reluctant.

“Because I think she’s rooting around for a nipple,” Charles says, already reaching his hands under her soft, lax little body and gently taking the baby -- Lorna -- from Erik’s arms. “I guess me and her can learn how to do this together.”

“I’ll go find the wet nurse,” Erik says, shifting to get out of bed.

“I told you I don’t want one,” Charles says, mouth pursing, and reaches for the buttons of his shirt, flicking them open with one hand while he cradles the baby in his other arm, her little mouth making an echo of her father’s. “She’s my baby. Everyone knows if the steward feeds the dog it’s the steward’s dog. I’m feeding my own baby.” Under his shirt Charles’ nipples are swollen and dark pink, and when Charles tucks Lorna in higher against his chest she makes a little grunting sound, fingers curling as she nudges around blindly.

“I just want to remind you, next time you’re complaining about the ‘frigid North,’ that you would never get away with this down south,” Erik says, but he settles back down all the same, his hand finding Charles’ thigh all over again.

“I’ll take advantage of what I do have, then,” Charles says, and carefully moves Lorna’s head to the right place, his hold tentative and gentle; but when Lorna finds his nipple she latches on, fumbling it between her tiny lips before she manages to get it properly into her mouth. Charles winces and makes a very strange face, leaning into the pillows as the baby starts to suckle.

Raven slips into the room while Lorna is feeding, walking over to the end of the bed and looking with avid eyes at the baby in her brother’s arms, only glancing briefly at Erik for permission to be there.

“Oh, Charles,” she whispers, smiling so wide that Erik has to wonder if she’s using her Gift to do it. “Look what you did.”

“She’s magnificent,” Erik murmurs, feeling a bit repetitive already but hardly able to bring himself to care. Now that the baby’s awake he can touch her hot forehead, stroke the back of one small arm.

“It’s a girl?” Raven comes around the far side of the bed, and slowly, carefully, sits down upon it, edging nearer to Charles until she can sit close enough to look down at the baby sucking at his nipple. “Alpha, beta, or omega?”

“Beta or omega,” Charles says, looking up long enough to smile at Raven before looking back down at Lorna. “We won’t know which until she’s older, but not alpha.”

It would have been a struggle, trying to force Shaw to recognise Lorna as his heir should he ever have another, alpha, child, but once Erik takes the South it will hardly matter anymore. Lorna is born to be a Queen. Erik moves his hand from Charles’ thigh to slip it around his shoulders instead.

“We’re calling her Lorna,” Charles says to Raven, and yawns, his hands too full to cover his mouth the way he normally would. “Ow. I have to say, this hurts a lot, given she’s not got any teeth,” he continues, looking down at the baby, still nursing. “Nobody tells you that it hurts!”

“We do have that wet nurse,” Erik reminds him, feeling a bit disgruntled that Charles has spurned the opportunity; it’s not healthy, for Charles to nurse his own child.

“Still no,” Charles says. “I’ll get used to it.”

Erik makes a brief, disapproving noise and touches the crown of Lorna’s head again, his hand feeling strangely large and clumsy against her delicate skin. Children are so fragile. There are treatments now for many of the sicknesses and fevers which used to steal infants so frequently, but they are not always effective. The worry is premature but it’s there nonetheless in the back of Erik’s mind, instinct-fueled.

“I’ll be wanting a cuddle when she’s not attached to you,” Raven says, leaning over to kiss Charles on the cheek. “All right. I’m going to leave you to get some rest.”

“Thank you, darling,” Charles replies absently, awkwardly shifting Lorna around in his arms and gingerly setting her to his other nipple. “Ow. Maybe her Gift is having super strong gums.”

Erik’s tension dissolves slightly when Raven leaves; her presence so close to Charles and their baby irritates at Erik despite himself, and he’s grateful to be alone with Charles and Lorna once more.

“You should sleep, when you can,” he says after a little while. Charles looks exhausted, his skin pale and eyes heavy. “I can watch her.”

“She needs to finish eating first,” Charles says, but it’s not a refusal. He leans more heavily against Erik’s side, the baby still cradled in his arms suckling at his nipple, and Erik realises after a few minutes that Charles has fallen asleep despite himself, still sitting up, as has the baby, her soft mouth still latched onto him. Erik reaches over and gently extracts Lorna from Charles’ embrace, settling her in his own arms where she twitches just a few times before sinking back into sleep. He sits there like that for as long as necessary, trying not to move and wake Charles, gazing down at his newborn child with a small smile on his face.

 

~*~

 

Lorna sleeps surprisingly well for the first few days, making it through most nights at the cot in their room without waking either of them. Erik almost starts to hope for a true pattern, but that hope is shattered four days in, when Lorna seems to decide that sleeping at night is overrated and nocturnality is her natural state. Even in the daytime her naps are fitful; she wakes often, crying for milk, or to be changed, or just to be held. Charles always seems to know what she needs, anyway, but that’s small comfort when Erik’s lying in bed in the morning, trying to wake himself after just two hours of sleep.

Charles offers to take Lorna and sleep in a guest room until she settles, but Erik won’t hear of it; he wants to keep the both of them at his side, even if his very dreams have started to revolve around changing Lorna’s cloth diaper and pacing the outer hall with her when she’s restless at midnight.

Erik counts the days for another reason, as well.

The first week passes and the eighth day dawns bright and warm for the season. “I need to take Lorna up onto the glacier,” Erik tells Charles, sitting on the edge of their bed to fasten his boots, drawing the leather laces tight. “She has to be acknowledged by the Frjáls religious leaders and given her second name.”

Charles is sat in the rocking chair with Lorna laid against his chest, soothing her, but the chair creaks to a halt after Erik has spoken, its motion stilling as Charles frowns, brows drawing close. “You want to take our eight-day-old baby on a hiking trip up a mountain of ice?”

“We can wrap her in furs; it’s not cold out.” Erik finishes with his shoes and sits up, resting his forearms against his thighs. “There’s not actually that much choice involved. If we don’t take her, she won’t be considered Frjáls, and she won’t be able to inherit.”

“How far do we need to go, then? To meet the leaders?”

“A few miles on flat ground through a pass. Then: not far.” A pause, then Charles’ words settle properly into Erik’s mind. “What do you mean, ‘we?’ I can take her myself. You should rest.”

Charles’ frown deepens, and he gets up from the chair, still cradling Lorna close, his movements a little stiff -- he’s recovering well from the birth but it still shows, sometimes, what a physical toll it took on his body. “I’m certainly not going to just stay here while you cart our baby up the glacier for some old alphas to prod and poke at. Besides, she’s going to want to feed at some point. Are you going to feed her?”

Erik’s mouth clamps shut, his mind turning over the possible arguments to that and summarily dismissing each one because Charles is right, damn it, and Erik hadn’t even considered the fact that Lorna would be hungry eventually on the way there, or during the return. Since all other Frjáls babies have Frjáls mothers, it would never normally be an issue. A slight sense of guilt tugs on the tail of those thoughts; if Charles hadn’t reminded him, he wouldn’t have remembered.

“Fine,” he says. “I think there are some crampons in the armoury that will fit you.” He’s not sure how well the other Frjáls will take it, Erik bringing his Southern omega into their territory -- especially if Magda has been advertising her unhappiness with Erik’s affection for him. But Charles … Charles should go, nonetheless. When Erik rules, it will be with Charles at his side. They will just have to come to terms with that.

“Crampons?” Charles asks, looking confused.

“Spikes, to wear on the bottom of your shoes. They’ll give you traction on the ice.” Erik goes to their wardrobe, finding the fur cloak he’d fashioned from the skin of the bear he’d hunted for Charles some months ago. Charles still hasn’t adapted to the weather in the North, whatever he might claim. “Come here,” Erik says, beckoning with his free hand.

Charles pads across the flagstones to Erik’s side, and lets Erik settle the cloak around his shoulders, fastening the steel clasps with a turn of his Gift. A stray strand of Charles’ hair has caught in the fur, dark against a white field, and Erik plucks it away. “There,” Erik says, satisfied. “And I should carry Lorna; I’m more comfortable on the ice than you are.”

“All right.” Charles hands Lorna to Erik and reaches into the wardrobe to draw out his winter boots, which have been tucked away in the back corner. “Who are we meeting with, by the way? This is the first I’ve heard of any Frjáls elders.”

“The kennari, who is a religious leader of sorts,” Erik says. “And there are others, as well, but their identities are a secret; they’ll want to meet with me alone.”

There’s a sling of sorts that Erik had made which will allow him to strap Lorna to his back over by the cot; Erik finds it and lays it out on the bed, settling Lorna into the bundle of furs. Charles comes to stand beside them, reaching out to tuck his finger into her tiny hand.

“She’s very young to be introduced to how big and wild the world is,” he says quietly, then withdraws his finger so Erik can wrap the baby up snugly.

“There’s no such thing.” But at least Erik can protect his own child from the horrors that befell other such children, slain at the sword and burnt in their homes. Lorna will be the first Frjáls child to grow up without reason to fear for her life. Erik vows this to her silently as Charles helps him tie Lorna to his back and Erik pulls the leather knots snug.

“Let’s go, then,” Charles says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and heading for the door.

The journey takes longer than usual; Erik has to go at Charles’ pace, and they have to stop periodically when Lorna cries to feed her, or change her, or simply lull her back into contentment. It’s nearly midday by the time they reach the ice caves. The kennari is waiting just inside; he looks surprised to see Charles there trudging into the cavern behind Erik, flush-cheeked and wind-tousled.

“Hello,” Charles says before the kennari can speak, stepping forward and offering him his hand, gracious and unpretentious. “I’m Charles. It’s very good to meet you.”

The one thing about Southern etiquette, Erik observes, is that when one is already caught off guard, it’s very hard to resist it.

“... Thank you,” the kennari says, a bit dazed as he takes Charles’ hand. “Kenig, you did not say you would be bringing your … consort.”

Erik smiles, his face giving away nothing. “I’m sure Magda told you of my husband’s importance to me,” he says.

“I apologise for intruding,” Charles says, clearly picking up on the subtext and continuing his charm offensive, looking young and innocent wrapped up in his enormous bearskin cloak, “but I couldn’t let Erik just take my child up onto a glacier without me. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Naturally, naturally .…” The kennari waves them further in, pulling himself together a bit, or at least enough to look more composed. But then he pauses, his gaze suddenly going sharp, lips tilting into a frown as he focuses on something Erik can neither see nor hear.

“What is it?” Erik says when the kennari’s eyes turn toward him and Charles once more.

“It’s the dragons,” the kennari says, bemusement colouring his expression. “They want to meet your mate.”

 

~*~

 

_Charles_

Charles can’t quite believe that the kennari really said what Charles thinks he said, despite the ring of truth emanating from the old man’s mind, not so much as a hint of deception. And when Charles looks inside his thoughts, almost hoping that he’s mad, or just a wonderful liar, he sees _them_.

Enormous, clawed and scaled dragons, with immense wings and gleaming eyes, hidden in the caves under the northern ice, speaking in thoughts to those few they take into their fold; dragons, wild and fierce and still living in this world, long after Shaw had claimed to have wiped them out.

Charles is staggered by the scale of them in the kennari’s mind, the idea alone seeming ludicrous. “Really?” he asks breathlessly, feeling a little lightheaded. “Dragons. Erik … Erik, this is a big thing for you not to have mentioned.”

Fucking _dragons_. It seems like a bizarre dream, a child’s fantasy.

Erik just shrugs one shoulder, looking faintly amused by Charles’ flabberghast. “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

“I don’t understand,” Charles says, putting a hand to his forehead, trying to process the information. “How did they _get here_? I thought all of them were killed in the war. And why do they want to see our baby?”

“Supposedly all telepaths were killed, too, and yet here you are,” Erik says, shifting Lorna on his back slightly. “Dragons are remarkably hard to kill off, even for Shaw. Their species has a … special relationship, with my people. We need their approval of Lorna’s Frjáls name for her to be considered Frjáls and my heir. As for why they want to see you ….” Erik shrugs. “Well, we cannot win the war without them.”

Charles makes himself take a breath in, then release it slowly. “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” he says, forcing his voice to match the other two’s calm, “but all right. They don’t eat people, do they? Because if they do I’m not taking Lorna down there, approval or no approval.”

“They eat sheep and cattle. Lorna will be fine.” Erik’s hand rests for a second on Charles’ shoulder and then it drops away. Erik nods toward the kennari, who turns and leads the way down a narrow tunnel through the ice.

The tunnel walls are slippery under Charles’ hands, faintly blue wherever the light of the lit torch hits them, slick and smooth and freezing cold. It’s only the sand that’s been scattered underfoot that makes it possible to walk down the long and winding slope, that and the crampons affixed to Charles’ shoes. Erik is in front of him, Lorna a bundle of furs swaddled on his back without so much as a hint of skin showing, just enough space between the layers for her to breathe. He would be worried, but when Charles touches her mind she’s sleeping comfortably, quiet and warm and dead to the world.

It’s surreal to be so far under the glacier surface and to still be descending; apart from the sounds they make as they walk the only things Charles can hear are the dripping of water and the groaning of the ice as it shifts and creaks, like an old house, settling in the winter wind.

Dragons. They’re going to see some dragons, who are going to -- what? Name Lorna their future Queen? Baptise her? Approve or disapprove of Charles’ child, like he’s a craftsman bringing them a product of his labour? Just the thought of this whole thing is mad, and Charles knows he’s suppressing the very real fear and disbelief he feels, probably for his own good. The kennari has seen the dragons, talked to them, knows they’re real. Erik says so as well. And Charles --

Like most children in the south, growing up far from the mountains they called home, Charles dreamed of dragons in his boyhood, regretted that they were all gone, but never did he dream of anything like this. He can’t even imagine the scale of them in his mind, like trying to think of an entire mountain at once, impossible to contain.

The tunnel widens as they descend, until it’s almost a cavern in its own right, and Charles swallows hard when he sees what can only be claw marks in the ice, made by talons the size of his forearm. It feels like it takes hours to reach the bottom, but it’s probably more like fifteen minutes; once they’re on level footing again the kennari smiles at them both reassuringly before leading them towards an enormous archway twenty feet in front of them.

“How many are there?” Charles asks Erik in what he means to be a whisper, but his voice echoes from the ice, magnifying and whispering back at them from all directions.

“Three,” the kennari calls without looking back, pausing on the threshold of the archway. “Andvari, Rok and Fárviðri.”

“Andvari is their leader,” Erik murmurs back. “He -- it’s -- the only one I’ve ever met. Be … respectful. They rarely meet with humans, and even more rarely with those they have not named their equals.”

Charles manages a wry if slightly wobbly smile. “I’m always respectful,” he says. “Unlike you.”

“There are those who would disagree with that claim,” Erik says, tugging Charles close enough to brush his lips against his temple before they pass through the archway and into a much larger space, a great cavern carved out of the ice, so tall that Charles can barely see its ceiling. In here the echoes are even louder somehow, amplified by the natural acoustics until their footsteps sound like giants walking upon the earth.

Except -- Charles realises with a sudden drop of his stomach that the footsteps he’s hearing aren’t in time with theirs, and they’re accompanied by a sound of rustling, leathery wings and a swish of scales on ice.

He sees the eyes open in the shadows at the far end of the cavern first, two glowing, almond-shaped blue eyes, floating in the black, along with the sensation of a mind unfurling where it was hidden from him, a great and overwhelming presence; then two more eyes, blue as well, to the left, another mind; and finally two more enormous eyes, even larger still, to the far right, as if the owner needs more space than the other two. The mind that comes with these is the strongest of all, makes Charles stagger, clutching at his head. He’s never met a mind stronger than his own. When the dragons emerge from the darkness at the far end of the cavern it’s all Charles can do not to grab Erik and Lorna and run -- and all he can do to keep his knees locked and stop himself from falling.

 _Welcome, Southern Son,_ , the black dragon says, its enormous, sinuous body rippling with a subtle rainbow sheen as it comes into the light. Its voice is a deep, echoing percussion of thought and memory, louder than anything Charles has ever heard with his physical ears. It carries with it a sense of self, of centuries; its name is Andvari, and its name is embossed on everything it is and thinks and does.

 _Welcome,_ the red dragon says, its voice one of heat and fire, and Charles knows at once that its name is Rok.

 _You have dragon thoughts,_ the third dragon says, this one a rich forest green, its voice like a roaring wind. Fárviðri. _But not a dragon heart._

Charles is trying not to stagger under the weight of their attention, and he feels almost drugged, his balance lost as his mind is unsettled, like being battered by a gale, trying to balance on a tiny peak. _Hello,_ he projects weakly, then berates himself -- as though this is any sort of answer. _Thank you for gracing me with your presence._

Andvari snorts, a loud whuff of hot air that echoes around the cavern. _We must be quieter,_ it says to the other dragons, and its tone is already moderated. _Do not kill the human before we have spoken to it._

Erik is shifting Lorna off his back, untying the knotted leather that held her to his torso and transferring her to his arms. She wakes at the disturbance and begins a loud wail, one that sounds louder in the large expanse of the icy cavern. Erik murmurs something soft to her in the Frjáls language, bouncing her slightly.

“This is Charles, formerly of House Xavier,” Erik says, once Lorna has quieted some, though she’s still sniffling and hiccupping slightly. “My omega. And Eiðný, also called Lorna, our daughter.”

 _All blessings on your hatchling,_ Andvari says, and Charles can feel the difference in its voice now -- softer, like a half-whisper, and more open -- he realises that the dragons only spoke to him, before, that Erik is entirely unaware of that brief conversation. _And so you have brought it to us, to show us your future and honour our pact. And you have brought your telepath, your mate, to show to us as well._

Erik nods, slowly, his gaze staying trained on Andvari, one comforting hand still moving on Lorna’s belly. “As I promised,” he says, and his voice is even, low, likely wary of disturbing Lorna further.

The dragons rumble, all together, like a chorus at a play; then Andvari starts forward, its great size making covering the distance between them a matter of only a few steps. Charles is trembling now, confronted by so large a predator, and when Andvari lowers its head to peer at Lorna with one eye Charles just has to move, coming as close to Erik’s side as he can without knocking him over, as if he could possibly manage to grab the baby before the dragon would be able to hurt it, should it choose to.

Andvari’s slit pupil flickers to look at Charles, a sense of amusement in the air. _I won’t harm your hatchling. Dragons have so few of our own, to see a creature this young is rare for us._ It takes in a slow breath through its nostrils. _Your hatchling is Gifted, like yourselves._

Erik glances at Charles, but doesn’t say anything.

 _No,_ Andvari says, and it takes Charles a second to realise it’s responding to something it has caught in Erik’s thoughts, reading Erik’s mind in a way Charles cannot. _I can’t tell what the Gift is. I cannot tell if it has dragon thought._

But _how?_ Charles feels -- incredibly, intensely jealous, that this dragon is able to read Erik’s, his husband’s, mind, when he cannot. It’s a sick feeling in his stomach, even though he’s glad to hear it confirmed that Lorna is Gifted beyond the colour of her hair.

“Why did you want to see me?” he asks out loud for Erik’s benefit, when nothing else seems to be forthcoming. “Erik never told me about you until today, so I assume you’ve changed your minds? You must have known I was here.”

 _There is always new information becoming available,_ Andvari says, which Charles can’t help feeling is rather vague. _You have a hatchling. The Kenig grows fond of you. In his mind, his plans for the future of this war begin to concern you. This … concerns_ us.

Charles makes himself pause before he replies, bringing up his strongest shields against mental intrusion to hide the cautious fear in the forefront of his mind. “What do you mean?”

Erik’s expression hasn’t changed, but even he has gone slightly tense next to Charles, standing just a little straighter than he was before.

_We must be certain of you. Of your intentions. But this does not take very long, with dragon thought. We already have made a decision._

Slowly, Charles stiffens his spine, preparing himself for whatever is to come. His breaths are coming fast, his entire body trembling with the anticipation of pain. “Which is?”

 _If it were not our approval,_ Andvari says, just as slowly, _You would know._

The relief that floods through Charles then is almost as good as an orgasm, it’s so intense -- he sags against Erik for a moment, knees shaking before he forces himself to straighten again, back to a semblance of dignity. “Thank you,” he says, not sure if he’s thanking them for their approval or for his life.

Erik’s looking rather green himself, his arm catching Charles around the waist and his fingers digging into Charles’ hip just a little too hard. “I had another request,” Erik says.

 _Yes, you do._ Andvari’s voice is like raw silk. _Ask it._

“I want you to allow Charles, my mate, past the barriers you’ve placed on my mind, so that he can communicate with me as you do.” Erik’s voice is surprisingly strong, without reluctance or hesitation.

Charles’ heart stops in his chest, a dull thud like being hit with a stone, and he turns to stare at Erik with his lips parted, too surprised even to ask what he’s talking about. It’s -- he’s always assumed it was Erik’s mutation keeping him out, that Erik had no choice in the matter and that it was just something he would have to live with, being unable to read Erik’s mind and know him the way Charles wants to. But now, for Erik to say --

Charles is torn between desperate hope and a raw, aching hurt that Erik hasn’t done this before now, hasn’t even mentioned it as a possibility; despite the dragons being secret, despite the long four months of their fighting, there have been the past three months of something that has approached understanding and honesty, a deeper kind of affection that had precluded loyalties to anyone or anything else. Or so Charles had thought. His stomach drops, his organs feeling crushed together like they’ve been grabbed by a giant fist.

The dragon turns its head to look at its fellows, one after the other, the silence in the cavern so sudden and deep that it’s unsettling; even Lorna is quiet, her eyes wide and trying to track Andvari’s snout.

“It would be useful,” Erik says, his voice sounding too loud when it breaks the unnatural silence. “On the battlefield, when the war comes.” It’s not an appeal based on love or affection or trust; perhaps Erik doesn’t think that will be effective on the dragons, or perhaps he simply doesn’t find such things sufficiently motivating.

“Erik, what are you talking about?” Charles manages finally, wrapping his arms around himself with fists clenched, keeping his breaths measured and even by pure force of will. “You -- the dragons blocked your mind from me? Why would you even think to do that, before I got here?”

For a split second, Erik looks almost confused. “You -- ah. No. They’ve been blocking my mind ever since I was a child. My mother’s mind, as well. We knew telepaths must have survived Shaw’s scourge. Emma Frost was one of them, after all. To protect the royal line, we must be impervious to telepathic attack. The dragons kept me guarded even while I was in the Capital; I could stand right next to the King's mistress and she was no wiser about why my mind was closed to her than you were before now.”

 _We will fulfil your request,_ Andvari says, turning its great eye back to the three of them, even huddled together smaller than its entire head. _Southern Son, we will be aware if you alter the Kenig’s mind from its own path. Do not test us._

“Of course not,” Charles says, his mind reeling already just at the suddenness of it all, the idea of touching Erik’s thoughts so foreign to him now that it’s just not sinking in. “I would never.”

 _Then it is done,_ Andvari says, and then --

And then --

Erik is _there_ , in Charles’ head, a lodestone glowing in the emptiness of the glacier, outshining the kennari by far, his mind like a beacon, drawing Charles inexorably in; there’s a layer of apprehension at the surface of his thoughts, staining everything else, but beneath that there’s satisfaction, the thrill of a known danger, excitement, affection, fear, all tumbling together, and Erik in his own head, thinking, tentatively: _Charles?_

“Oh,” Charles says, stupidly, and reaches back with his mind, curling a tendril of thought into Erik’s, like holding hands, the feeling of a kiss. _Erik, you’re here._ The feeling of utter joy that rises in him then wipes out everything else, and Lorna wriggles in Erik’s arms for no apparent reason save that Charles is happy. _Can you hear me?_

“Yes,” Erik says out loud, and it echoes in his mind a moment later: _Yes._ Erik’s mind seems to flinch from Charles’ mental touch on instinct, but Erik always brings it back again, pushing his thoughts forward toward Charles’, his determination to trust Charles as solid as his concurrent sense of reflexive unease. There’s interest there as well, a curiosity about the parameters of Charles’ ability, Erik wondering exactly how much of him Charles can see, when the dragons can see _everything_ \--

 _Thank you,_ Charles says to the dragons, remembering all at once where they are and who their hosts are.

 _Take your hatchling before it grows cold,_ the red dragon says, and Charles can sense its fascination with Lorna, so small a creature and so young a mind. _Humans are fragile._

Erik nods toward Charles, and he helps him strap Lorna onto his back again, tying the leather cords into tight knots so they won’t slip. The kennari leads them back up the tunnel; Erik’s hand brushes Charles’ every few steps, and Charles would think it were accidental if it didn’t happen with such regularity, or with such warm anticipation echoing in Erik’s thoughts.

Erik’s thoughts. Something Charles has had to guess at, and now can see and feel and read and _know_ ; he’s not sure how to feel, happiness mixed in still with hurt that Erik had had the ability to change things all along, that he has only just chosen to now; understanding that perhaps Erik wasn’t sure enough until now, that he has taken a risk despite Charles’ good intentions, because Erik has had no way of knowing Charles’ true thoughts and feelings. It’s a heady mix, one Charles muddles through as they climb and he slips his hand properly into Erik’s, lacing their fingers together so they can ascend, hand in hand.

 

~*~

 

Being inside the castle feels too claustrophobic after spending so long in the icy caverns under the glacier, so they end up on the rooftop instead, laying on a blanket Erik brought up from their room, curled like commas towards one another with their foreheads and noses touching, so close that every exhale Erik makes brushes over Charles’ face like a caress, warm and soft. Lorna is asleep in her basket by their feet, her mind quiet and contented even after her big adventure today.

Charles is grateful for that, because right now the only thing he can focus on is Erik’s mind, so close to his and finally open to him, finally real.

They share memories, thoughts, feelings, easily and without the time lag or miscomprehension of speaking aloud. Charles shows Erik his childhood, happy during his father’s lifetime, then blighted once his mother married Kurt and brought Cain into their house as well. And Erik shows Charles his own.

Charles sees him growing up in the North, playing outside in midwinter heedless of the dark and cold, his mother showing him the hall of the ancient temple in Ironhold and lighting two candles, teaching Erik to sing his prayers. The memories have a strange and dusty feel to them, as if they are not often-used, blurred and vague at the edges. Sharper are Erik’s recollections of fire and the smell of burning flesh. The way Erik’s blood was hot and sticky on his skin and the nightmares that have torn through his mind every night since, remembering his grandmother’s broken corpse and the dead bodies piled in the street.

After that Erik’s memories take on a harder edge, anger staining everything he sees and does. His friends are killed, one by one, Frjáls children he used to play with, and he doesn’t cry at their gravesides. He loses himself in iron. An image of the night Magda’s younger brother died and Erik destroyed all the swords in the armoury, melting them into a bubbling pool of metal on the ground.

He sees his home through Erik’s eyes as well, the South hot and foreign, its people talking about the ‘savage threat’ in idle conversation, petitioners praying in the cathedrals that the barbaric race will be wiped out soon. Erik’s hate feels as solid and fierce as if it were Charles’ own, mingling with fear whenever Erik sees Shaw’s face, and Erik’s self-loathing that he feels fear at all, Shaw calling him ‘my son’ and settling a hand on Erik’s back while Erik draws a bow and aims for the target, misses. ‘A fine young alpha,’ as if Erik were a prized stallion to be bred. The way Shaw’s scent makes Erik gag.

Erik’s father dies and he becomes Duke at eighteen, and as he rides his horse Northward, leaving his fostering a month early, shaking with his sudden and unexpected freedom, Erik vows never to go back to that city unless it is to put his sword through Shaw’s heart.

Wars are frequent, and Erik feels at home on the battlefield, the metal singing around him. The memories are perfectly neutral: if there was emotion when they happened Erik has since erased it or forgotten it, his heart cold even as he walks through cities that have been razed to the ground -- even his recollection of the massacre he encountered with Charles is drained of anything like pain, although Charles himself watched Erik all but break at the time. Each of these memories is tied to a strong cord that leads back to the well of Erik’s rage, hoarded inside him like a weapon.

Erik hasn’t sanitised his memories of Charles, though. That time on the riverbank is kept whole in Erik’s mind, set aside almost carefully and glowing bright, even if its fringes are a bit worn from the way Erik had gone over it again and again two months later, looking for signs that Charles had been false, trying to convince himself to let Charles go. All of those memories, from before, are like that: clearly-cherished moments that have suffered the abuse of Erik’s doubt, only to be tentatively brought forth again more recently, tied in equal part to the darkness which characterises the four months they spent apart and the newer swell of Erik’s hope for their future.

Then Charles comes across Erik’s fear that Charles will leave him again, a dark kernel planted in the soil of his self-doubt and self-loathing, and Charles can feel his physical body take a deep, shuddering breath of surprise and sorrow as he reaches in to cast his own light on it.

He won’t leave again, he shows Erik more than tells him, displays his own conviction and love to Erik as strongly as he can, would only leave if Erik betrayed him, and now that Charles knows him so well Charles isn’t afraid of that anymore, knows that Erik would never hurt him like that. Erik’s relief is palpable, blooming in his mind even as Erik’s physical lips smile.

 _I trust you_ , Erik thinks, quietly, but clearly intended for Charles to hear, his fingers curling around Charles’ ear and slipping down the side of his neck. There’s a flutter of apprehension alongside the words, but Erik means it all the same.

Charles smiles, and moves his mouth closer for a kiss that is less about their lips than it is about their thoughts.

 

~*~

 

The messenger arrives three weeks later, riding into Ironhold in the early hours of the morning, horse lathered from the speed of his journey.

Lorna is a month old now, starting to hold her head up for short bursts of time and cooing at Charles and Erik when they hold her close, her hands still too weak to grasp but her mind touching back to Charles when he brushes against her, as curious as one can be when you sleep for almost twenty hours a day. Charles is sat with her in her basket at his side on the couch in the main library, with Raven at the window looking out and Erik at the table, when the man is shown in, still huffing and blowing from climbing the three hundred stairs to the top floor.

“Your Graces,” he says, bowing, then belatedly, to Raven, “my Lady,” and Charles reads his message from his mind before the messenger has the breath to speak it, stiffening in his seat and feeling himself go pale. Across the room Raven has lifted her head like a dog on the hunt, her eyes sharp and attentive, and, closer, getting to his feet, Erik’s mouth has tightened, his shoulders squaring as if for bad news. He must know what the message is, from the colours of the man’s regalia if nothing else, but he waves his hand anyway, encouraging him to speak his piece.

The messenger clears his throat, pulling a roll of sealed parchment from his breast pocket and folding his hands behind his back, ready to recite. “To his Grace Erik, Duke of the North, from his Majesty King Shaw of Genosha, Lord of the Amber Islands and Guardian of the North, greetings,” he says, voice almost sing-song in its delivery. “In light of the recent and unforgiveable transgressions of our Eastern neighbours of Svartiland, the King has declared war upon them, and requires your immediate attendance upon him, with all your armies, at Ellis Field, as owed him by your sworn fealty to the crown and the protection of our great nation. Long has the North been sovereign in our favour for their prowess in battle, and never has this been more needed than now in this our hour of war. Do not pause but proceed immediately with mine messenger unto my side. Signed and sealed with my emblem, Sebastian, King of Genosha.”

Once done, the messenger hands Erik the parchment copy of Shaw’s words, and bows again when Erik dismisses him with instructions to go to the kitchens and be fed. Erik’s thoughts are as troubled as Charles’, though he hides it better, quashing the feeling down until he can crack the wax seal with his thumb and unroll the letter, rereading the message with a calm mind.

“We knew it was coming,” he says when the messenger is gone, setting the scroll down lightly on the table and looking at Charles.

“I know,” Charles says, trying to even out the unhappy tilt of his mouth to something resembling Erik’s composure. He puts out a hand to rest very softly on Lorna’s back and she wriggles a little in her sleep, thumb migrating its way between her lips. “I even know that it’s necessary, if we’re to achieve our aims and get rid of the king for once and for all. But somehow I always thought there’d be more time.”

What he does not say is, _I feel like I only just found you, and now you’re being taken from me_.

Erik’s mind flickers briefly to the memory of the last time he received a call like this, reading the missive briskly and emotionlessly, leaving Ironhold without worrying about the things kept in it, never considering the possibility that he might not return. This time, Erik has far too much to lose.

“No longer than a year, surely,” Erik says.

Raven makes a doubtful noise from over by the window and gets to her feet, padding quietly across the room to Erik’s side and taking the letter when he offers it to her, scanning over it quickly. “A year? The Svarti are tough,” she says, glancing at Charles with an apologetic look. “And then after that you have Shaw to fight, as well. Do you really think all that can be done and over in a year’s time?”

Erik gives her a hard look, his lips thinning, though he doesn’t dispute it. Charles plucks the true value from his head easily.

“As long as that?” Charles asks, dismayed; but of course, wars take time. He can’t help but think that he’s being foolish, and so he straightens his spine, trying to match Erik’s trick of crushing down unproductive emotions to concentrate on the practical. “Very well,” he says, as neutrally as he can. “I’ll tell the Steward to start making the final arrangements.”

“As long as what?” Raven asks, and Charles says, “Erik thinks it may take two to three years, if not longer.”

“Damn telepath won’t stay out of my head,” Erik mutters, though there’s no real force behind it. He takes the scroll back from Raven’s hand and sets it on the table.

Charles rolls his eyes, but continues, “If things are finally on the move then we need to move forward with mine and Raven’s side of the plans.”

“What do you need?” Erik asks.

“Mostly for word to be carried South,” Charles says, turning over his mental notes as he tries to make sure everything is prepared for what he has come to think of as the passive aggressive side of taking down Shaw. “Most everything is in place already, it just needs the right code word to set off the chain. But Raven can do that when she returns South with you.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Erik crosses to sit on the sofa next to him, folding his long, lanky body into the smaller space available with Lorna’s basket taking up part of the seat. “Someone should stay with you and Lorna. At least for the first few months. Surely Armando is more than capable of carrying on by himself for the time being.”

“Hmm.” It’s hard to be sure if it’s genuinely a better plan, to have Raven stay up north, or simply what Charles would like -- he leans into Erik a little, casually and without active consideration, and finally says, slowly, “If Raven stayed up here, then there would be no implication that she is involved in disrupting the supplies from Westchester. It _would_ be far safer than being available to blame.”

“I don’t mind staying for a while,” Raven says, leaning back against the table’s edge, hip cocked and arms folded across her stomach. “Not forever, because this is as much my fight as yours and Erik’s, but I can keep you company until you’re less exhausted all the time from being up half the night.”

“Thank you, Raven,” Erik says. His hand is on Charles’ thigh, just below the crease of his hip. “I’ll have to go by dawn at the latest. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can return.”

So soon, Charles thinks, with a silent sigh, deep and heartfelt, his heart sinking. So quickly for their quiet little idyll of Charles, Erik, and Baby to be disrupted by the outside world.

“Then you’d better go rouse the troops,” Charles says, turning his face to Erik and putting on a small smile, more through willpower than genuine feeling. “I’ll ask the cooks to make something special for dinner tonight.”

 

~*~

_Erik_

The next morning Erik dons his blacks in the near-darkness of their bedroom and goes down before Charles is awake, leaving his husband curled up under the furs, projecting a faint sense of restless anxiety that lingers on the fringes of Erik’s mind all the way to the ground floor. Ironhold is awake -- it never slept -- and the kitchen staff is packing the last of the supplies into the wagons alongside Forge, who is sharpening last-minute swords. The sky is the deep violet of just before dawn, mist still clinging to the grass.

He’s surprised to find Logan awake as well, loading a barrel of wine into a cart with his pipe clenched between his teeth.

“You aren’t coming, you remember,” Erik tells him, even though Logan’s not dressed to travel anyway.

“Nursery duty,” Logan says, blowing smoke in Erik’s face. “Yeah. I know.”

Erik nods slowly and Logan grunts, dumping what’s left of his tobacco onto the cobblestones, grinding it in with his heel.

“Don’t worry. They’ll still be here when you come back,” Logan says.

Erik just nods again and leaves him there, getting Skyggnir from the stables and riding along the lines which stretch far outside Ironhold’s mountain-side gates and onto the plateau, double-checking armour and weaponry with his Gift, making sure nothing is weak or fractured, adding a razor’s edge to blades when necessary. When he reaches the furthest squadron he goes ahead and sends them off; the bridge outside the crevasse-side walls of Ironhold is narrow and it will take some time to get twenty thousand soldiers over it.

When he rides back to the keep Charles is there, looking surprisingly alert considering the hour and how late they were up last night, stealing as much pleasure as they could before distance would force them apart. He has the baby in his arms, swaddled but awake as Erik dismounts, handing Skyggnir’s reins to a nearby beta.

“We came to see you off,” Charles says quietly when Erik reaches him, and tips his face up for a kiss which Erik gives willingly, his hand rising to cup Charles’ cheek and press his lips to Charles’, drinking deeply of his mouth and inhaling his scent. When they finally break away from one another Charles’ cheeks are flushed with more than the morning’s chill. “Stay safe,” he says, and the words are accompanied with a sensation of caring, of taking care.

“How long until you can no longer reach my mind?” Erik wants to keep him there, present in some part, for as far as possible. His hand is in Charles’ hair; he wishes he’d thought to ask for a clipping of it, to take with him the way some husbands do.

Charles smiles; clearly he picked up on the thought, because he shifts Lorna carefully into one arm and touches his freed fingers to the dagger at Erik’s waist, then tugs a handkerchief from his own pocket. “Clearly? A day’s ride, perhaps two. At all? Perhaps ten days,” Charles says, as though this is nothing, as though he has not just dismissed three hundred miles as a parlour trick, something to be shrugged away. “Take the hair from underneath where it won’t show, I don’t want to look shaggy.”

Erik takes the knife when Charles offers it to him and cuts a curl of hair with his own hands rather than his power, letting Charles fold it into the square cloth and tuck it into Erik’s jacket himself, Erik’s hands lingering on him, touching him and swearing to himself that he won’t forget what Charles looks like right now, how he feels beneath his fingers. Lorna’s brow is warm and smooth when his hand glances down to rest upon her head and she makes a faint, distressed noise, as if she somehow knows what is happening, in her infant’s understanding of things.

“I love you,” Erik says, and he echoes it in his mind, with a surge of affection and desire and the sense of absence that he already feels too keenly.

Charles smiles, but it wavers a little, betraying his feelings. “And I love you.” The touch of his thoughts this time is a deeper ocean, still shocking and frightening and awe-inspiring, attachment and affection and love and sorrow and hunger all tied together, like waves on the shores of Erik’s mind. “Come back to me with all of your constituent parts attached, or I shall be very cross.”

Erik kisses him again, holding him there for as long as he dares, wanting Charles’ lips to remember him the same way as will the small bruises on Charles’ thighs and chest, the scratches on his back. When he finally goes it’s only because he knows if he waits any longer he won’t be able to leave, mounting into the saddle and forcing himself to drive his heels into Skyggnir’s ribs and keep his eyes on the road as he canters forward to catch up with his troops.

He doesn’t look back until he’s at the gates, and even then it’s only once. He can’t see Charles from here but he feels the brush of Charles’ presence in his mind all the same, lingering even after he crosses the bridge and the keep is out of sight.

He loses the sense of Charles’ mind on the eleventh day, and after that all there is to do is ride on toward the war.

 

~*~


	13. Thirteen

_Erik_

They’re two days’ ride from the front when scouts return saying there’s a small Svarti contingent riding their way. Erik keeps his army moving but splits off two squadrons, one by the road and another in the forest, hidden, to outflank if necessary. ‘Small’ apparently means three souls, though, and unless one of them is intensely Gifted Erik doubts it will be necessary -- but of course, he hasn’t survived as long as he has by not preparing for the worst case scenario.

The Svarti group is flying a white flag when they ride up the hill to where Erik and his men are gathered. Erik takes two Gifted lieutenants with him to meet the Svarti midway, leaving their horses and walking instead, no weapons but Erik’s metal spheres in his left pocket. 

The Svarti are all tough-looking folk, stocky and tall, and these three are no exception -- neither of Erik’s lieutenants are as tall as even the shortest of them, and Erik himself is only of a height with that woman. The man who looks to be their leader looks the three of them up and down, and breathes in, clearly scenting them.

“Greetings, Northern Duke,” the man says, lifting his chin -- he’s an alpha, and he smells strongly of dominance, like he’s trying to overwhelm them with his own power. “Well met.”

Erik doesn’t bother reciprocating the gesture; his army still marches behind him, he has no need for brazen displays of strength. He sends his lieutenants to stand out of earshot, waiting until they’re standing at attention some distance away before he speaks again.

“Greetings,” he says. “What message do you bring?”

The man clears his throat, taking a wider stance, and it’s clear from his tone that he’s reciting. “From her Majesty Queen Mary of Svartiland, to Erik, Duke of the North, greetings and salutations. Following your recent message brought to us by Lady Ororo of the Southern Isles, we are pleased to accept your terms of engagement in the matter of the brutalities and illegal actions of King Sebastian Shaw of your kingdom the country of Genosha. 

“In view of the great and lasting friendship between our houses, we extend our gratitude and support throughout this conflict, with the shared goal of ending this tyranny and bringing freedom to our peoples.

“In the name of her Majesty Queen Mary, Protector of the Greenfang Mountains, Ruler over the Eastern Shores, and borne by her servant Lord John of Stillwater.”

To be frank, Erik thinks, it’s not as if they’d had much of a choice; were Erik to fight against them fully, alongside Shaw’s army, their troops would be decimated. Svartiland is not weak, but they have not built their citizens into soldiers; were Erik to ask any one of their alphas their trade, none would say ‘warrior.’ Even so, they’re brutishly strong; one-to-one, they would overpower Shaw’s men with ease, were it not for Shaw’s pet Gifteds.

“Glad to hear it. I look forward to many years of peace and prosperity together,” Erik says. 

He turns to gesture for his lieutenants, and in the end, the movement is the only thing that saves him. He doesn’t sense the arrow coming; there’s just a sharp flare of pain in his shoulder -- someone shouts and Erik tears his shield off his back and thrusts it between his body and the archer a split second before a second arrow splinters against the metal.

Erik’s shoulder burns from the first; a quick glance down shows Erik that it’s unlikely to have hit anything important, though one can never be sure. There’s blood running down his arm towards his elbow, soaking his sleeve a darker black even as he draws his metal spheres from his pocket and flings them in the direction the arrows came from with his power, the supercharged steel slicing through the trees in great explosions of splinters and leaves.

“Search the copse,” someone shouts, and soldiers rush past Erik into the shade of the trees, their own shields held high against further attack even as they cast about for the enemy.

He hadn’t felt the arrow coming. The thought reverberates in his own mind, blossoming through the pulsing pain. His spheres have gone further than he wants them to go when he’s otherwise unarmed so he calls them back, but already he can tell there’s no blood on their surfaces. He hadn’t felt the arrow coming.

Erik waits until their metal is in his orbit again before he hurls them back out. The arrow came from someone standing at ground level, but he goes higher this time, aiming for the branches where someone may have climbed to escape from view; the Svarti men are too tall for him to risk lower. Erik knows better than to chase after his men unarmed; his power is spread through every soldier’s weapon as he kneels down in the dirt, eyes scanning the forest from beneath the edge of his shield, blood dripping and gleaming wet on the grass. His nerves buzz as he waits for another strike, shifting slightly, uncertain from which direction he should guard. His arm is a harsh, painful throb at his side, but he ignores it, pushing down the sensation until it’s little more than an annoyance. Time enough for that later.

“Nothing,” one alpha calls, and another calls back, “Nothing here either. Assassin must have got away.”

“Look for tracks,” Erik says loudly, and hears an acknowledgement before he looks back behind him.

One of the Svarti is lying on the ground, teeth gritted, her hands holding tightly around her thigh and squeezing down around the arrow shaft protruding from the muscle. Erik propels his shield forward to cover them both and crawls across the ground closer to her; he can't tell if the arrow has hit a major vessel because this one's head is equally as invisible to his Gift as the one buried in his own shoulder.

“Don’t remove the arrow,” Erik says when it looks like she’s about to, catching her wrist in his hand. “I’ll have my medic tend to you, but not here.”

She nods, and though her expression is blank he can see the muscle twitching in her cheek as she grits her teeth. No more arrows come flying out of the forest, but Erik stays there with the Svarti woman, his shield covering them both, until one of his lieutenants returns, shaking his head. Apparently not even their resident empath could sense any presence but their own.

“Clearly our meeting was not so secret as we had intended,” the Svarti’s leader says when he returns from his own search, his jaw set hard and square, his expression grim. “I must apologise for leading trouble to you, your Grace.”

Erik swings his shield onto his back again, careful to avoid the arrow still in his arm, and rises. “You couldn’t have foreseen this,” he says. He nods at the Svarti still on the ground. “We’ll tend to her well enough to see her safely back behind your lines, but none of you should linger long. The King will have scouts.”

The man bows, swift and shallow. “I will convey this news to my Queen. If your King knows of our pact, then you would be welcome to come to Svartiland to pitch your flag with ours, should it come to that.”

Erik nods, and leads them back to his troops, to the medic at his wagon. They treat the Svarti woman first, removing the arrow and binding her leg tight enough that she can ride two to a saddle with one of her fellow soldiers. Once they’ve gone Erik sits on the medic’s stool himself and braces himself as the man pulls the arrow out of his arm. A fresh wave of blood seeps out of the wound but that’s all; the blade landed shallow. Even so, Erik accepts a salve for the wound, though he turns down the proffered purgative to restore his humours.

Damn it all. He does wish Logan were here, if only so he had someone to sit around the fire with that evening. As it is, he eats his dried fish and lingonberries alone, his thoughts flitting in other directions but always returning, in the end, to the dull throb in his arm and the memory of that unfelt arrow that came from seemingly nowhere. That the assassin must have been sent by Shaw is obvious; who else would know not only of Erik’s Gift, but where he might find him on this particular day, and also be sufficiently motivated to see him dead? Before now, Erik had thought Shaw saw him as a necessary evil, letting him rule the North despite their differences because Shaw’s own narcissism convinced him he could control him. But apparently something has changed. 

If Erik dies now, no one but the Northerners will know it wasn’t the Svarti who did it -- and the Northern army would still be forced to fight alongside Shaw without their commander, at least until Shaw could install one of his newer, more obedient pets in Erik’s place. He takes another bite of his fish, barely noticing the taste. At night, he will be defenseless without the aid of his Gift; he’ll have to install guards on himself, an idea which rankles but which is obviously necessary. On the battlefield he can keep himself among Northerners, insofar as that counts as protection when one is at war. 

But no matter what precautions he takes, Erik is still wary. It wasn’t just that the assassin used ceramic arrowheads and wore no metal on his person -- he was _untraceable,_ invisible, even to an empath’s eye. Doubtless he is in Erik’s camp this very moment, slipping unnoticed among Erik’s men, biding his time. He could be behind Erik in this second, with a ceramic knife pointed at his throat.

It’s as risky to linger on such considerations as it is to ignore them; even now, Erik can feel paranoia making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a nervous apprehension taking root in the pit of his stomach. He spreads his Gift throughout the camp, searching for a naked space in the sea of swords and daggers and shields and buttons and rivets, but there is nothing to be found.

~*~

They ride into camp a day and a half later, exposed on the great, flat plains near the Svarti border. Erik immediately sets his men to building trenches, the only defensive tactic that seems efficacious in this terrain against Gift fire and sight -- and apparently one of which Shaw is personally ignorant, though Erik doesn’t find that surprising.

He had thought he could feel Shaw’s presence growing like a heaviness in the air the closer they got to the Genoshan lines, and here in the camp itself he imagines he can smell it, mingled with the ashes of last night’s fires and rank in the sweat and pheromones, the urine and excrement of these thousands of alphas. Knowing it’s a product of his imagination doesn’t do much to reduce it. Erik has taken as much scrap metal as he can find and spread it out thin, wearing it beneath his already tight-fitting black fighting uniform, the steel and iron hugging his skin wherever he is most vulnerable to attack. It’s the only thing he can do with an assassin he can neither sense nor hold off with his power, and it’s a flimsy defense at best.

Of course, it does nothing to prevent the King himself from coming to find him as soon as word of Erik’s arrival reaches him.

Erik hears the hoofbeats on the hard-packed dirt first, followed by the sound of his soldiers all turning to look and talking in low, rumbling voices; Erik is already turning, hands raising in self-defence, when the trumpet blares out a salute, a loud series of notes that ring in his ears and jar his teeth, vibrating through his skull. It barely registers. Erik is staring at Shaw, feeling disgust crawl up and down his spine like cold fingers, his very flesh creeping on his bones as the King of all Genosha rides into the Northern camp on his black horse, grinning from ear to ear as he comes to a halt beside Erik, the parched earth kicking up a cloud of dust that settles on everything around them, like Shaw’s own personal miasma.

“Your Majesty,” Erik says, lowering his hands and tipping into a shallow bow. It’s almost shallow enough to be an insult, but Shaw’s almost certainly already tried to kill him once in the past two days, so Erik doesn’t really think there’s much he can do that will make matters worse.

“Erik, my boy,” Shaw says in a friendly yet still somehow brittle tone, staying atop his horse and keeping the advantage of height. “Barely here an hour and already at the bloody work of war, I see.” He gestures at Erik’s shoulder, that meaningless smile still stretching his thin lips.

Erik glances at the wound; the torn fabric and the bloodstain are visible, Erik’s darning skills leaving something to be desired, but only just. Of course, Shaw knew it was there already. He’d been informed. 

“An assassin on the road, sir,” Erik says. “Fortunately the injury was minor, and I am now safely among your Majesty’s finest troops.”

“An assassin?” Shaw’s eyebrows rise in a convincing show of surprise, then pull together into a frown. “Our enemies grow bolder by the day. Good, then, that you’re here my boy, so our enemies can be snuffed out quickly. But how did they get past you and your wonderful Gift? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you injured.”

Erik’s smile feels false on his lips; Shaw has seen Erik injured many times, but never in war. “This,” Erik says, producing the arrowhead from his pocket and holding it up where Shaw can see, though he keeps it just out of Shaw’s reach. “It’s ceramic. Our enemies must know me quite well.”

There’s a moment’s pause, in which Shaw’s face twitches into a microscopic grimace of frustration before he finally dismounts his horse, swinging himself down from the saddle with the ease of long years campaigning. Once on the ground he is shorter than Erik, but that does not diminish the presence of him, the force of his alpha stink or the strength hidden in his body. He plucks the arrowhead from Erik’s fingers and turns it over in his palm. “Nasty little thing,” he says, looking at Erik.

Erik keeps the sharp reflexive fear that spikes in his gut tightly restrained; when he was younger Shaw could always smell it on him regardless, though -- he found it pleasing. Erik holds his gaze, Shaw’s irises feral and nearly-colourless, and shrugs. “It says much about our enemy, that they are too cowardly to face me on the field of battle. They used a Gifted assassin and their attempt failed anyway. We should take that as a good omen.”

A longer pause, before Shaw smiles, broad and toothy, eyes hard, and says, “Indeed, my boy, indeed. Now, come with me to my camp and we’ll talk strategy with my other lords and ladies. Let us refresh you after your long journey.”

Erik tips his head, as much of a bow as he can manage with Shaw standing so close, and mounts his own horse to ride after Shaw with the rest of Shaw’s contingent toward the Southern camps. He eats what food Shaw brings him -- while he wouldn’t put it past Shaw to poison him, he doubts he’d do it here in front of the other Dukes and Generals, many of whom are sharing the same decanter of wine from which Erik is drinking. 

He thinks he can feel Shaw’s eyes on him from time to time, but whenever he looks Shaw is engaged with someone else, or looking down at the map that’s spread on the table, moving small red and blue markers around. Erik sits predominantly in silence; strategy is not his forté. He is better suited to being on the field himself, using his body and his Gift as weapons, not speaking of politics and tactics. He sips his wine and wonders how long it will last before Charles’ chokehold on the shipping lines dries up Shaw’s supply, or if Shaw will keep serving the nobles to keep up the pretense even as the common soldier’s throat is parched.

The trenches aren’t finished by the time Erik returns, but there are enough of them, and they are deep enough, to shelter half of Erik’s twenty thousand men should there be an attack in the night. Erik keeps half his attention spread out in his Gift along the perimeter of the camp; if anyone approaches, he’ll know -- so long as they aren’t his ceramic-wielding assassin, anyway. 

Erik’s tent is no larger than any of the others’ and is equally unmarked; he has that in his favour, anyway. He rolls out the simple bed roll he brought and sits, peeling off his shirt to examine the bandage on his upper arm. It’s already bled through, but when he unwraps the cloth he can see the wound has started to scab over, his skin reddened around the black threads the medic had used to sew it shut. He rewraps the bandage with care, though now that he’s off the road and alone the pain feels greater than it had before, pulsing down toward his bone. It’s not his sword arm, at least, and Erik has never needed to physically carry his shield.

Erik has just settled down with a glass of wine to dull the ache when Captain Drake raps his knuckles against the tent pole, looking apologetic as he ducks his head inside. “Your Grace, the King has sent for you,” he says.

Again? Erik doesn’t bother trying to hide his frown. “Thank you. Tell his man I’ll be there soon.” 

Drake nods and vanishes back out into the field. Erik pulls his shirt back on and tightens the iron-lined straps around his torso, hooking a knife and its sheath onto one of the loops on his back where he could draw it easily over one shoulder. Whatever reason Shaw has for wanting to see Erik at this hour, it can’t be good. He hesitates for a second before he reaches for his sword and belts the scabbard around his hips. If it seems odd to wear his weapons in an audience with the King, well. They _are_ at war.

Once in the Southern camp, Erik is shown to Shaw’s personal tent, a large and ostentatious affair hung with ribbons and lit inside and out with floating lights produced by an attractive and Gifted teenage alpha standing near the door. 

“You can go in,” the girl says, bowing his head when Erik approaches. “His Majesty is expecting you.”

Inside the tent Shaw is waiting, sat in a deceptive sprawl in a camp chair, his hand resting on his chin as he watches Erik enter. He blinks only occasionally, like some kind of lizard. There is a long, silent pause, uncomfortable and deliberate, before Shaw finally says, “Erik, my boy,” and smiles. “Come, sit with me.”

Thus permitted, Erik approaches, taking the only other chair available; it forces him to sit angled toward the King and to remove his sword, though that he rests against the side of the chair, still perfectly within reach for the draw, if traditional weapons were any use at all against Shaw’s power.

Shaw looks Erik up and down, taking him in; he has his own winecup in one hand, his wrist slowly swirling it around. “Help yourself to some wine,” he says only once Erik is settled, gesturing at the flagon on the other side of the tent.

“Thank you, your Majesty, but I’ve had my fill of drink for the evening.” He isn’t eager to turn his back on Shaw, but he will if Shaw presses the issue. Shaw’s gaze on him feels cold and unnerving; Erik’s stomach is already tying itself in knots, the swell of mixed hatred and fear leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Suit yourself.” The King takes a long sip of his wine before he sets his own cup down, and when he does the mouth behind it is abruptly smiling, wide and jovial, almost _teasing_. “Erik, you didn’t tell me earlier that you have had a child! I was very glad to hear it, though disappointed to hear it from another source. A daughter, I understand?”

Erik keeps his face carefully neutral, though just hearing Shaw speak of Lorna feels … wrong. It’s information he’d known Shaw would learn eventually, the way gossip tends to travel in camp, but it’s surprising that he knows so soon. Erik dearly wishes to rise from his chair and push Shaw back in his, slowly, ever so slowly, sinking the blade of his knife into the hollow of Shaw’s throat, to cut out his vocal chords before he can say anything that will turn Erik’s daughter into something Shaw can touch with the stain of his voice.

“My sincerest apologies, sir. I was distracted by considerations of our coming battles against the Svarti. Naturally I would tell you immediately, were circumstances different.”

“Of course, of course,” Shaw says, his pale eyes glittering in the dim light inside the tent. “Congratulations to your omega, as well -- the Xavier boy, wasn’t it? A good breed, the Xaviers. And have you named the child?”

Erik would kill him for even speaking Charles’ name. Should kill him. The knife against his back feels white-hot in his Gift’s sense. “Lorna.”

“Ah, after the Xavier boy’s -- pardon me, he is a Lehnsherr now, of course. After your omega’s grandmother,” Shaw says, smile deepening. “I remember her well. Very good of you, Erik, to allow your omega to choose a name from his family, though I suppose that as the child is not an alpha it matters far less.” 

Erik says nothing, because to speak now would be to say something he would later regret.

Shaw continues, seemingly unaware of the effect of his words - seemingly.“In any case, you and … Charles? ... must be getting along well,” he says absently, picking up his cup and swirling the wine in a circle, a flex of his wrist, hypnotic and disturbing. “Does he suit you, then? I must say I had my doubts when I heard the banns being posted, but I am always willing to admit when I’m wrong.”

“He is tolerable,” Erik says, trying not to grit his teeth. Shaw’s interest in his affairs should not be surprising, given Erik’s power and position, but to have it confirmed that Shaw has spent any time at all thinking about Erik’s family life nauseates him.

“There’s no need to play the stone with me, Erik,” Shaw says, smiling over the rim of his wine. “I know your soft heart.”

Erik is the first to break, his gaze sliding away from Shaw’s, down and to the right, before he catches himself -- but by the time he looks to Shaw again Shaw is already laughing, soft and low, before he takes a sip from his goblet.

Outside, there are other people, other alphas, but in here it’s just Erik, and the monster across from him.

“In any case, I hope they will both be safe while you’re far from home. My men do their best with keeping the Snowlander roaches under control, but it seems every time you turn over a rock more vermin crawl out.” Shaw shakes his head sorrowfully, every inch the noble, weary king, all of his evil hidden under his skin where you have to know to look to see it. “Genosha -- and the North -- will never be truly safe until they are gone from our lands and our children are freed from their malignant presence.”

Erik’s grateful he doesn’t have wine to choke on. “Your Majesty, my men are quite capable of handling this issue on their own. Surely your troops are better-used defending the Capital.” It’s an argument he’s made before, in person as well as through letters, and though he knows Shaw will never accept it, Erik will continue to protest.

The disagreement is dismissed with a wave of Shaw’s hand. “Pssh. I have plenty enough men in the South, Erik, and they get bored. Let them do something vital and necessary to wet their blades and keep them occupied when we are not being assaulted by our neighbours -- it keeps them ready for war.”

Erik tilts his head as if to acquiesce, and perhaps to draw Shaw’s attention from the sudden tension in his spine and shoulders.

“Now. It has been a long journey for you, my boy; you must be tired,” Shaw says, his tone becoming almost paternalistic as he leans forward in his chair, his hand coming to rest on Erik’s knee. “Go, get some rest and be ready for what tomorrow will bring. I’m sure it will be mostly a case of waiting to be attacked, but one never can tell. Send Jubilee in when you go, will you?”

Erik rises, Shaw’s hand falling from his leg and his sword in its scabbard jumping up to his hand for him to hook it around his belt once more. He’s at the tent flap when Shaw’s voice sounds again behind him:

“Oh, and Erik? Sleep well.”

~*~

Shaw isn’t wrong: they spend the next several days just waiting, Erik training his alphas during the daytime, moving from squadron to squadron to oversee his lieutenants’ work. At night he sleeps light, always expecting the archer to return with another ceramic arrow for him, but there is no more sign of the mysterious assassin. That in itself makes Erik nervous, wondering if Shaw is just waiting for him to be off his guard -- or, perhaps more concerning, that the assassin may not have been one of Shaw’s men at all, but some third party whose interests Erik cannot know.

They finish digging the trenches and saw down some nearby trees to cut planks to cover them, creating small dugout shelters at the intersection of major tunnels where they can stockpile weapons and be shielded from any objects catapulted their way.

And on the seventh day, the Svarti finally attack.

Erik senses their armour when they’re a mile away and abandons his breakfast, rousing his Captains. “They’re coming,” he says, his voice calm and firm. “Petra and Wagner, meet them front-on with all your alphas. Rasputin, take squadrons seven through nine and flank north, the rest south -- some of their soldiers are splitting off to the southeast. Don’t fight them, let them take Shaw’s men from behind; I want this to look like you just missed them in terms of defensive manouevres. Drake and Rogue, keep all your troops in the trenches with mine and prepare catapults. Go!”

The officers scatter, heading immediately to their own troops to pass along Erik’s orders and get their squadrons moving into position. It’s more notice than they might have had, but a mile isn’t a long enough distance to give them much time to prepare. The Northerners are well-trained enough, though, that they are all but perfectly in place when the Svarti break over the hill, howling and banging their shields as they run to meet the Northern army.

For Erik’s soldiers, and the Svarti soldiers, the fight is real enough; only Erik’s officers are aware of their true intentions -- must be, for Erik to move his pieces across the field with any success. Anything he does that counteracts Shaw’s strategy must be a very slight deviation, but in war, slight deviations can make all the difference. 

Erik summons the three steel spheres from his pocket and sends them flying out overhead, toward the most heavily-armed portion of the Svarti army. It’s practically a signal from the Svarti Queen: _attack here_ \-- the amount of metal they’re carrying is much greater than the rest of her troops. She would expect Erik, with his Gift, to finish them quickly. Most likely they’re men she wants rid of, and Erik is glad to oblige.

Erik can feel blood on iron as the three balls slice through flesh, tearing between the cracks in armour; those who run find their own blades turn against them, cutting throats or burying themselves in the backs of skulls. He leaves a small number alive to fight again later; holding his hand out to catch the bloody spheres as they speed back to him.

After that the fight intensifies, and Erik loses track of time. It all blends into one long, endless smear of blood and metal and snarling, screaming, dying alphas, the ground churning into mud under their feet and Erik’s arms aching from the motion of swinging his sword over and over, his legs tired from stepping over the bodies of the fallen.

He sees Shaw once, far off and outside of the fighting, watching from atop a hill and surrounded by guards; then Erik is lost in the melee once more, and it’s not until nightfall that he finds himself with time and space enough to think, let alone to breathe. Most of the Svarti have pulled back; Erik has had the majority of his Gift tied up with the battle the Southern army is waging, ensuring Southern blades fall short and Svarti go true. He’s almost grateful for the distraction -- it makes his own battle partners harder to kill, and gives him an excuse to leave plenty injured rather than dead. But with the field half-emptied the concern that Shaw may notice grows too great and finally Erik focuses his Gift on his own surroundings again, finding the nearby Svarti and crushing them with their own armour.

The next wave of attackers wear leather armour and bear wooden shields. Erik’s men kill them almost as easily with simple swordplay and Gifted alphas hiding in the trenches. It’s past midnight when the Svarti drum calls them into a retreat. Erik’s men reassemble into squadrons when the battle is over and he rides Skyggnir along the ranks, shouting abuse as he always does after a fight, telling them they’re weak and should have fought harder. And, as always, they grin cheekily back.

His Captains return their counts; Erik’s lost only a hundred men. There must be six times as many iron-armoured bodies on the field belonging to the Svarti who fought Erik’s troops alone. He extends his reach further and estimates only two hundred dead against Shaw, lying next to eight hundred bronze-armoured Southerners. If Shaw notices the discrepancy, hopefully he will simply attribute it to Erik’s army’s notorious might.

The next day Erik is not assassinated either, but he has to do it all over again. And the next day. And the next.

He sleeps like the dead at night in his tent and does not dream often, but when he does he dreams of Charles.

~*~

_Charles_

At three months old she still sleeps a lot of the time, but today Lorna is wide awake in the sling Charles has looped around his shoulders, blinking up at him with those big blue eyes of hers as he directs Þýður down the shallow incline of a hill, burbling and cooing to him as they ride.

“She’s getting talkative,” Raven says from where she’s atop her own horse beside him, her posture perfect and practiced, embarrassing considering how sloppy Charles’ has become since his pregnancy. She peers down at Lorna where the baby is resting against Charles’ solar plexus and makes a silly face at her. “Clearly she takes after you rather than Erik.”

Charles rolls his eyes, but smiles, anyway, switching the reins over to one hand so he can curl the other one around Lorna’s weight in the sling. They’ve gone out among the farms to the north of Ironhold, which rest on the plateau, a surprisingly flat tract of land on a large shelf between two mountains; it’s not as exciting as some of the rides Charles went on with Erik, exploring the weird and often dangerous landscape, but it is _outside_ , and right now, that’s all that really matters to Charles. The plateau is all rolling green hills and forests, verdant and alive, rich from the volcanic ash and quiet, too. There aren’t many animals that live up this high, only sheep and cattle brought in by the farmers and birds that fly past overhead, calling sweet songs to one another.

It’s been hard since Erik left. Even during those long months where they barely spoke, Erik had always been a presence in Ironhold, a fixed point around which everything else in the castle revolved; Charles can sense how the people of Ironhold have come adrift a little, the sense of permanence gone. And even with Raven staying behind to keep Charles company, at night he has to admit that he is feeling rather lonely in their bedroom in that enormous bed, without Erik’s warmth against his back.

There’s Lorna, of course, small and real and perfect. She in and of herself is a big consolation to the loss of his husband, even if Charles would rather have both. She smiles at him now when he’s close enough for her to focus on, gummy-mouthed and wide, guileless; she recognises his voice both out loud and in her mind, turns towards him like a flower towards the sun, knowing his scent and feeling comforted by closeness. Every day she’s different, changing, and Charles can see every morning just how grown she is already from the way she was when Erik last saw her, that day he rode out of Ironhold and away to fight a war. The day she smiled at Charles for the first time -- really smiled, not flexed her mouth in preparation to burp -- he couldn’t help it, he cried, wishing Erik were here to see. Lorna, at least, has had the decency not to tell anyone.

Raven stands up in her saddle for a moment, looking ahead with a hand cupped over her eyes, before dropping back down to the thick leather and letting out a sigh. “You do know you could have left her with the wet nurse and she would have been just fine,” she says, her scales flickering restlessly, as though she’s on the verge of shifting. “Then we could have gone riding at a pace where we actually _got_ somewhere.”

“Can’t we just enjoy the day and being outdoors?” Charles asks, a mild irritation rising in him that he pushes down and away, not wanting to let it ruin the day. “You know I prefer to bring Lorna with me. Surely it’s not such a hardship to take our time on a leisurely ride on a beautiful afternoon.”

Raven snorts. “All I’m saying is that when the barbarians attack us it’s not going to be me they catch,” she says.

Charles frowns. “The ‘barbarians’ you’re talking about never even existed,” he snaps, his good mood disrupted by Raven’s thoughtless remark. “I told you that when I told you about Erik being Frjáls, and about the massacre I saw. The Frjálsmen are a race just as cultured and developed as ours, who Shaw decided to target to give the rest of the kingdom something to fight against and not think about why we were fighting. They don’t attack random people on the road -- they don’t usually attack people full stop! Instead Shaw’s men hunt them down like animals and slaughter entire families then leave their bodies to rot. It’s not something to joke about.”

Raven looks taken aback by Charles’ outburst, her mouth opening as if to speak but for several minutes nothing comes out. They ride along in silence save for Lorna’s cooing, seemingly unaffected by her father’s anger.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Raven eventually says, stiffly, without looking at Charles.

Charles himself is feeling rather embarrassed at having reacted so strongly to what he knew even at the time wasn’t meant as an insult; he reaches over and takes her hand, squeezing it gently in his own.

“I know,” he says, quietly. “But it _is_ insulting to my husband’s people to talk about them like all of that -- that _shit_ that Shaw spread about them back then is true. It’s just another way to dehumanise their people, and for Shaw to kill off a race that has a higher proportion of Gifts and stronger Gifts than his army. Quite aside from the fact that Lorna is Frjáls by birth.”

He can feel as much as see the momentary struggle on Raven’s face between her upbringing and her experience of the North as it truly is; but the tall tales of vicious, violent brutes are, after a minute, overridden by Raven’s memories of meeting Erik, of all of the people she has met in the North, Frjáls and non-Frjáls, and she concedes the point gracefully, bowing her head in Lorna’s direction. “My apologies, your tiny future Grace.”

“Mmmmah,” says Lorna.

They turn to head back toward Ironhold at a steady walk, keeping the horses moving slowly so as not to jar the baby. There are farmers and farmhands in the fields from time to time, taking advantage of the good weather to seed new crops for the year, usually with one hoeing the land and another following after with the bag of seeds, scattering them in the furrow left behind and kicking the dirt back over them to hide them from the birds. Soon enough Charles will have to really start worrying about sunburn, both for himself and for Lorna - she looks to have inherited his pale skin, which most likely means she’ll crisp up just the way Charles does, instead of tanning like Erik.

Even so, now that he’s thought about the massacre again, about the Frjáls and Lorna’s connection with them, the fear of sunburn is easily subsumed by the worry of remembering Erik’s story about his grandmother, about how even at the highest rank of nobility Lorna will still be vulnerable to her heritage. It would be so easy for someone to excuse away hurting her, to use her blood as judge, jury and executioner, and Charles … he has to look after her. He can’t let that happen to Lorna.

“I need to be able to protect her,” he says after they’ve been silent for a while, shifting his seat in Þýður’s saddle and adjusting the weight of the sling around his shoulders. “I was never physically that strong before having Lorna, but now I’m not even in the shape I was in before, and after having met both Erik and Logan who are or were immune to my telepathy, I’ve realised that my Gift alone isn’t enough. I need something else for when that fails.”

Raven looks at him consideringly, nudging her gelding on slightly when it pauses to take a mouthful of the long, thick grass. “I could help with that,” she says; her voice is serious now, a focus coming to her mind that Charles can feel even without dipping into her thoughts. “You’re a bit late to start on swordplay, and besides, an omega carrying a sword would get commented on, but there’s no reason not to teach you to use a knife. It would be better in close quarters, too.”

Charles can feel the idea taking hold in his own mind, the memory of watching the bouts at midwinter coming into the forefront of his thoughts as if fresh, seeing the way the omegas had fought -- as vicious and deadly as the alphas and betas, the way it had made him wonder if he could ever be so strong, so capable, thinking of them protecting their children without relying on their alphas to do it for them the way a Southern omega would. 

It feels right. It feels like freedom, too, like throwing off another chain he hadn’t realised he was wearing.

“Yes, please,” Charles says, turning to smile gratefully at his sister, but then Lorna starts to fuss and they have to stop in the shade of a birch tree so Charles can feed her.

~*~

They start as soon as Lorna has gone down for her afternoon nap, Charles changing into some of his older clothes that he doesn’t mind getting ripped or dirtied before leading Raven to one of the smaller rooms in Ironhold, one he can reasonably keep people away from with some judicious use of telepathy during their lesson. It would serve no purpose to learn a new defensive skill if everyone knew he had it. They borrow two of the wooden training blades from the soldier’s armoury, and that’s how, Charles assumes, Logan finds them, following the trail of the thieves to find Charles practicing his grips and basic motions with the knife, Raven standing to one side and suggesting corrections to his stance and form. 

Logan isn’t affected by Charles’ telepathy, and Charles has shut out his annoying brain sounds so thoroughly that he’s surprised to see Logan standing in the doorway when he turns a bit too hard on a swing and staggers around to face him, coming to a sudden halt when he realises they’re being observed.

“Don’t mind me,” Logan says, lowering his pipe and exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke. “I’m just the one whose ass is on the line if either of those is missing when the Duke gets back.”

“Eh. Charles’ ass will buy us some leeway,” Raven says, and Charles blushes bright red, turning to glare at her and, without thinking about it, reflexively threaten her with the blunt wooden knife. Oops.

“I’m sure we can replace these if they did get damaged or lost,” Charles says, embarrassed as he lowers the blade. “I apologise that we didn’t ask first, Logan -- did you need them now?”

“No, you two carry on,” Logan says. He steps into the room and moves to lean against one wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. “I’m interested to see what they’re teachin’ down South these days, anyhow.”

Charles only hesitates for a moment before nodding his acceptance, turning back to Raven and raising the wooden knife again, trying to stand with his feet at shoulders’ width like she is, keeping his knees from locking up.

In the empty room it’s difficult to keep focused on what he’s supposed to be doing, instead of on the eyes watching him; Charles makes a couple of swipes, the way Raven showed him, and can’t help but feel foolish, off-balance and evidently unused to fighting with a knife. Gods, if he could read Logan’s mind he’s sure he’d find a whole litany of things wrong with the way he’s doing everything, including plenty of sly digs at his inexperience.

“Good,” is all Raven says though, looking at his stance and his grip, stepping in close to adjust his feet ever so slightly with a nudge of her own. “You’re getting the hang of the basic posture already. Now, I’m going to hold up this target,” she lifts the woven-straw circle in one hand, another theft from Logan’s stores, “and I want you to stab it. I don’t care about technique right now, just about you hitting it reliably.”

“All right,” Charles says, looking at the target, bends his knees a little more, focuses, then jabs forward with his right hand.

The blade glances off the target, but it was reasonably close to the centre; the next jab is closer but the third is way off, only catching the edge. He makes a rough sound of frustration and takes a step back, frowning.

“You’re going too fast for your skill level,” Raven explains, keeping the target just where it is. “It’s harder than it looks. Just stab the thing, it’s not going to run away.”

Charles tries again and it’s better, now -- slower, but at least he’s hitting the middle. The straw is hard and dense, difficult to get the tip of the blade to dig into at all instead of bouncing away, but by the time Raven starts moving the target around, making him adjust his aim with every blow, he’s striking true, though still without much force behind his arm.

“What, now, you trying to make him angry with all those scratches?” Logan says from behind them. “If you’ve had to draw your knife, someone’s dying. If it’s not you, then it’s gotta be him.”

Raven scowls, rolling her eyes at Logan over Charles’ shoulder. “He has to learn to hit where he means to first, then after that we can work on power. One step at a time.”

Logan shrugs. “If someone’s out to assassinate you, you aren’t gonna have time to draw a blade anyhow, not unless you got a Gift you aren’t telling us about. Incapacitate first. Then he won’t be movin’ much.”

Well, that’s discouraging. Charles lowers the knife, turning to face Logan more fully. The large man is still standing just where they left him, blowing a ring of smoke from his mouth up toward the ceiling. “What do you suggest, then?” Charles asks, genuinely curious; the Gift part he doesn’t touch, as nobody in Ironhold except for Erik and Raven knows about his telepathy. “I’m very happy to take direction if you think there’s something else I should be focusing on.”

Logan pushes off the wall and dumps out the tobacco in his pipe before tucking it away in his belt. “Step one is run, of course. They can’t kill you if they can’t catch you. If that fails, you still have one thing going for you -- you’re a Southerner and an omega, so they won’t be expectin’ you to fight back. Gives you the upper hand to make the first move ... and if I were you I’d be going for the groin; you’re too short for a headshot. Slit their throat while they’re still doubled over.”

The thought of it is abhorrent, but Charles can’t really be squeamish about it when he’s already learning how to stab a man. Not when he knows Erik is away killing people in Shaw’s name, putting himself through far worse than just thinking about defending himself and their child. Charles can manage this much at least.

Hiding the shudder that runs through him, he says instead, “Show me?”

“All right.” Logan steps forward until there’s about five feet of distance between them. “So. You just woke up and I’m standing in your bedroom. What’s your first move?”

If Logan knew about the telepathy, and assuming the assassin were immune to it, Charles’ answer would be that he would immediately direct the nearest guards into the room. But that’s not an option here. What would he do without his Gift?

“Get out of the bed so I’m not lying down,” he says, slowly, “and grab the knife from the table by my bedside.”

Logan shakes his head. “Leave the knife,” he says. “You have to assume that whatever weapon you’ve got, the assassin has one that’s bigger and better. Don’t draw it unless you have to. Now, obviously, first choice is to run, but let’s say you can’t. I’m taller than you, so if I’m going to cut you, you’ll have to be somewhere around arm’s length. I won’t want you being in my personal space, so that’s exactly where you’ve got to be.”

Charles frowns. “Surely being within your range means you’re going to be able to stab me more easily.”

“Only if my knife’s already drawn, which it’s not,” Logan says, nodding down at the sheath on his ankle. “That a knife takes too long to draw applies to everyone but Lehnsherr. If I don’t have it out, don’t give me a chance to get it. Keeping you at a distance for now lets me use my height to my advantage, so get close fast and put me down.”

“Then what?”

A sharp grin. “Then knock me out and kill me. But it looks like I’m still standin’, don’t it?” 

“Charles, for fuck’s sake,” Raven says, interrupting with a fond, exasperated tone to her voice, “just attack him. This is a practical lesson, not one of your astronomy classes.”

“Oh,” Charles says, shoulders dropping and blinking with surprise; he looks at Logan, nonplussed, and that’s when Logan lifts one hand and gestures for Charles to come at him. “All right,” Charles says, swallowing down his surprise and a sudden fear of looking ridiculous, drops the practice blade, and then he throws himself across the gap between them at Logan.

He smacks into Logan’s body at full force, all of his weight behind it, and they go down hard, the jarring impact of the stone floor mostly absorbed by Logan’s body. Charles nearly bites his own tongue anyway, his teeth clacking together in his head as his jaw bounces off Logan’s ribs; their legs are tangled, and Logan grunts as the air is expelled from his lungs, a sharp exhale that goes off in Charles’ face like being hit, forcing him to squint and blink away the sensation, totally nonplussed

Charles pushes himself up before his eyes have even refocused, most of his weight still resting on Logan as he draws back his fist -- then hesitates. Logan is still down, gasping for air. “Should I hit him? If we’re just practicing?”

“Punch him!” Raven shouts, and Charles obeys. Logan’s head jerks to the side with the impact, his skin splitting open along his cheek where Charles’ ring strengthens the blow -- though it’s sealing itself shut again a second later. 

“You’re holding back,” Logan says breathily, staying put even though surely he must be able to move by now. “You got me on the ground, but I wasn’t incapacitated -- I could have gotten you in a chokehold. Hit me in the solar plexus or the balls next time, and then don’t just punch me, gouge my eyes out.” His lips quirk up at the side. “Don’t worry, they’ll grow back.”

“I’m not going to gouge your eyes out,” Charles exclaims, disgust overriding everything else; he sits back on his heels, still feeling rather dizzy from the hard landing. “That’s disgusting, and unnecessary. I’ll take your word for it.”

“If you can’t do it to me, you can’t do it to an assailant,” Logan says seriously. “If you don’t want to go for the eyes, then go for my throat; you can squeeze on either side of the cartilage, here.” He taps the bulge at the front of his neck. “Then take my knife and cut deep enough that you go through my windpipe.”

“Still no!” Charles pushes himself to his feet, forcing himself steady. He feels like he’s the one who was hit, despite his hurting hand -- Logan’s cheek is harder than it looks, and Charles has never really hit anyone before, feels weird about just punching the man without -- without _this_. “I don’t care if you’ll heal or not. If it comes to it and someone is trying to hurt me, to hurt Lorna, I’ll do it then. I’ll be as vicious as you like. But -- well, you’re my friend, Logan. Unless you’re the one really trying to kill me, in which case all bets are off.”

It was probably the wrong thing to say, because Logan looks as though he’s considering it now. Charles scowls. “Don’t attack me just to make me do it. I won’t.”

Caught out, Logan grunts and just shrugs where he’s still laying down on the floor, casual and unconcerned. “I’m Lehnsherr’s friend too, and he must’ve killed me fifty times now. But hell, maybe he’s just sadistic.” 

He pushes himself up to his feet, more agile than Charles had expected given his size. “You were right about one thing, though. If I’m coming at you with a knife, you’re dead unless you can hit me at some range. How’s your throwing arm?”

At least the subject has changed. Charles shrugs, mouth curling into a wry smile. “Attached?”

“I’ve seen that one hit a target at fifty paces,” Logan says, jerking his head toward Raven. “None better to teach you.”

Raven smiles, wriggling her eyebrows at Charles, eyes twinkling. “And I won’t ask you to throw the knives at me, either,” she says.

The two of them keep Charles there practicing for another hour, and it’s hard -- Charles hasn’t done a lot of physical exercise since he had Lorna, and his body protests at first, sweating and aching. But it feels good, too, to know he’s pushing himself, that he’s learning more ways to look after Lorna. He finally begs off when he feels the baby starting to wake up in her cot upstairs in the bedroom, and it’s a welcome excuse to retreat from the company of others. He loves Raven, and Logan is quickly becoming a real if rather gruff and obnoxious friend, but sometimes all Charles wants is to be alone with his thoughts.

Well. And Lorna’s, of course.

She’s lying on her back in her cot when he gets upstairs, and when she sees him lean over the edge she smiles widely and coos at him, reaching her fat little arms up towards Charles, wanting to be picked up. Charles obliges, hefting her weight into his arms and resting her against his chest, but then he frowns, thinking.

“Weren’t you on your tummy before?” he asks her, and very gently he puts the question in her mind; she responds with a giggle and a sense of achievement, followed by the memory of rolling herself over, levering with her arms and legs to flop onto her back. 

“Oh,” Charles says, and he can’t help but smile, astonished all over again at this tiny person, learning new things all the time. “Daddy is very proud,” he tells Lorna, and she babbles at him before stuffing her hand in her mouth to suck on her fingers, smug.

It would be better if Erik were here, to see this, Charles thinks, as he carries Lorna over to the bed so he can put her down and get changed himself. To teach her the Frjals language, too, while she’s little and absorbing things like a sponge -- already he can feel the way she pays attention to what Charles says, even if she doesn’t know what it means or how to repeat it herself. Just -- better, if Erik were here, and Charles has to sit down for a minute to rest his head in his hands, breathing slowly and steadily through the heartache of Erik being so far away, for so long.

It’s so strange, to think that not that long ago, this distance would have been a blessing. That even less time ago, Charles touched Erik’s mind, could feel what Erik felt and share in kind, know him through-and-through after so long of wishing and wanting. And that now Erik is gone, too far for Charles to follow after, risking his life and waiting until he can take the step that will secure the future of their country and their own lives, at the cost of so many others.

“Bwah,” Lorna says, and rolls herself over onto her back, lifting her head shakily from the mattress and looking very pleased with herself, up until the point at which she lets out a massive wet noise and poops her diaper.

He has to laugh, and somehow Lorna got the timing just right, because Charles is sure he would have cried otherwise. “Oh dear,” he manages through his laughter, picking her up from the bed before the mess can escape. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Life goes on. But it’s not the same.

 

~*~

 

It’s about a month later when when the letter arrives. Charles is in his sitting room working his way through a treatise on battle strategy and aching from the day’s self-defence training when Raven comes in, a concerned look on her face. “What is it?” he asks, turning in his chair; in the corner Lorna is playing with her toes in her basket, snuffling excitedly as she investigates.

Raven’s lips purse, and she hands over a rolled parchment, folding her arms once it’s out of her grip and staying on her feet instead of taking the other chair as she usually would. “A messenger just brought this for you -- I took it, since I figured you wouldn’t want anyone of Shaw’s near the baby. He’s waiting downstairs for your reply.”

Charles blinks, surprise blanking his mind for a moment before he looks down at the wax seal -- it does indeed bear the King’s coat of arms, a crown crossed by a hammer and a sword. “What could he possibly want with me?” he asks. 

A sudden flash of horror hits him then, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as every other part of him sinks, his insides turning to lead as he wonders with terrible foreboding if something has happened to Erik. Oh, Gods --

Charles fumbles for the seal with shaking hands, cracking it open only after several attempts. When he’s finally managed that, he unrolls the parchment as quickly as he can, and scans quickly over the neat black handwriting with eyes that only grow wider as he reads, more incredulous.

What in the names of all the Gods… 

When he looks up at Raven Charles can barely put together a sentence to explain it, he’s so rattled, his eyes wide. “The King wants me to come South to have Lorna acknowledged by the Crown,” he says, and Raven looks as gobsmacked as Charles feels. “Or else he will legally disinherit her from inheriting Erik’s title.”

~*~


	14. Fourteen

_Charles_

“Surely he can’t do that,” Raven says, once the initial shock has worn off. She looks over at Lorna, then back at Charles, determination in the set of her jaw. “He can’t just -- disinherit her, because he didn’t get a visit!”

Charles leans back in his chair, covering his mouth with his hand for a moment before lifting it to pinch at the bridge of his nose, trying to think. “Unfortunately he can. It’s an old -- very old -- tradition, and one nobody’s used in over a hundred years, but the King has the right to refuse a Dukedom to any legitimate heir he is not presented with in person to accept.”

Raven frowns, then comes over to stand beside him, propping her hip up on Charles’ desk. “Okay. So why do we care?” she asks, eyebrows rising. “We’re planning to overthrow him anyway, once I’m -- well, once I’m Queen I’ll just re-inherit Lorna. Shaw can go fuck himself.”

“It’s not as simple as that.” Charles can’t help it, he has to lean over and pick Lorna up, cuddle her into his chest. She’s getting heavier all the time, and she looks up at him curiously, a little frown on her face that reminds him of Raven, before going back to playing with the edge of her blanket. Her hair’s getting long now, and curly, still that same bright spring green colour it was when she was born. Charles sighs and looks back up at Raven. “Firstly, if I refuse to go then Shaw has legitimate reason to ask why, because as far as he knows, Erik and the North are still loyal to him; he has the right to command me south if he pleases, and if I refuse that means he starts questioning Erik’s loyalty.

“Secondly, you can’t just ‘re-inherit’ Lorna once she’s been disinherited, because if the ruler finds the heir unworthy, it’s supposedly at the direction of the Gods, which means if you reinstated her rights then you’d be going against the church, which we cannot afford to do.

“And thirdly, if I refuse to go then it will make mine and your position with the other nobles of the kingdom very shaky indeed, when it comes time to win their trust and get them to follow you. Not only would I be allowing my daughter to be disinherited -- which would suggest to many of our peers that she was illegitimate, gossiping harpies that they are -- but it would make it look like we were perfectly happy to hide in the North while they took all the risks against the King. Not where we want to be.

“No,” Charles says, and his jaw clenches as he looks down at Lorna in his arms, still so small and vulnerable, “Shaw has me over a barrel, and I’m sure he knows it. He wouldn’t have invited me if he didn’t already suspect something. Lorna and I are meant to be his hostages.”

“You can’t possibly go!” Raven hops down from the desk and starts prowling around the little room, agitated into rippling all over, her scales flickering and shifting wildly across her face and arms. “You’d have to be stupid -- ”

“ -- not to go,” Charles finishes for her. He feels sick, thinking about it, everything inside of him clenching like a giant fist has hold of him, squeezing, but he knows beyond doubt that he has no choice. The decision sits like a stone in his gut, immovable and unwearing.

He looks out the window at the blue sky overhead, that perfect pale eggshell colour he’s grown to love in the time he’s spent here. It’s been more than a year now since he came to the Northlands to marry a man he’d never met and expected to hate, and now he would do anything to avoid going back to the South.

“Charles,” Raven says, her voice breaking on his name. “I can’t let you do this.”

“You can’t stop me,” Charles replies, and he gets to his feet, adjusting the baby in his arms and schooling his face to coolness, to calm, forcing himself to hide away the way he really feels about the letter. “Tell the messenger I will do as the King commands. I’m going to go find Logan and work out how we keep Shaw from killing us all.”

It would make more sense to find a servant to look after Lorna, or to take her to her nurse, but Charles can’t make himself put her down as he walks through the castle corridors, even when she squirms and grouses; there’s a need to protect her flowing through his body, a biological imperative, and even though he could track Lorna easily with his mind he needs her close, where he can see her, hold her, and know with all his senses that she’s safe. While Raven heads down to the Great Hall to find the messenger Charles heads for the garrison barracks, where he can feel Logan giving new orders to the soldiers on the new guard shift.

By the time Charles reaches the barracks the alphas are already splitting up to head out to their assigned posts, orders already given for the day; they salute him as they pass, and Charles nods at each one politely, despite his impatience to be alone with their Captain.

“To what do I owe the honour of your visit?” Logan asks once the last man has left, straightening from where he’s been leaning against the wall, a pipe clenched as ever between his teeth. “And the little Duchess-to-be, o’course.”

Charles tries to smile, but he’s pretty sure it’s weak at best. “Logan, we need to speak in private. Is it safe to talk here?”

Logan’s eyebrows rise, but he gestures at the door beside Charles with the end of his pipe. “Is if you close the door. What’s wrong?”

It’s easier to smile, now, when it’s a tight and dark-humoured twist of his lips. Charles’ voice is bland, dry of emotion, when he says, “The King has ordered me to travel south with Lorna to have her acknowledged as Erik’s heir. If I don’t, he’ll disinherit her, and he’ll have reason to declare war on the North, if he so chooses.”

A pause. “Well, shit.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re planning on going, aren’t you?”

Charles takes a deep breath, then nods. “Yes. I have no other choices that give us any better odds of living through this, so. I’ve already had Raven tell the messenger I’ll be coming.”

Logan sticks his pipe back in his mouth, and he chews on the stem, the look on his face far from happy. “The King’s no fool. He knows something’s up even if he doesn’t know what, and he’s planning to use you two as hostages against Erik’s good behaviour. He ain’t subtle, neither.”

Snorting with black amusement, Charles finally comes further into the room, taking a seat on one of the benches and setting Lorna down in his lap. “No, he’s not. But then he’s not meaning to be. The whole point is that I have no good choices, and he wants me to know it and concede. Not because he thinks I’m smart -- I’m an omega, how could I be smart? -- but because he likes the power.”

“Never met the man myself, but from what Erik’s told me, sounds like that’s a bit of a pattern with him.” Logan puffs out a cloud of smoke and bends a knee, pressing his boot back against the wall behind him. “You asking me to come with?”

“Only if there’s somebody else you’d trust to look after Ironhold while we’re gone,” Charles says, letting Lorna play with his fingers, twitching them every so often to make her laugh. “I’d rather you came with me, but not at the expense of the castle.”

“Moira or Magda can take care of things here,” Logan says. “Magda’s better qualified, but she’ll be going south soon to fight with Erik. I’ll see if she can’t help smooth out any of Moira’s rough edges before she does.”

Magda. Of course Magda. Because clearly there is nobody else in the entire bloody North that could possibly be installed in Charles’ home, to take care of Charles’ people in his absence.

“All right.” Charles swallows down his frustration and closes his eyes for a moment longer than he can pass off as a blink before he opens them again, fixing Logan with a firm gaze he hopes comes across as determined. “Then we need to make preparations for going South. That means a carriage for me and Lorna, in the first instance -- she can’t go with me horseback all that way, and it would make us look provincial. Do we have one?”

“Somewhere around here,” Logan says. “It might not be what you’re used to, but we can make it work. What else?”

Preferably an army, Charles thinks, but doesn’t say. “An escort, obviously, with horses and provisions. Most everything else we can get on the way there. I’ll need to take a couple of trunks of court clothes, if I want to maintain good standing there, though probably everything is out of date already. And whatever we can carry easily that’s worth a lot of money but easily hidden, for bribes.”

“You’re gonna have to make me a list, bub.”

Charles’ smile is lopsided, but he manages it anyway, somehow. “I can do that. You think about who you want to bring on the escort -- people we can trust absolutely, ideally who can’t be bought, though I know that’s a tall order.” Everyone spies in the capital, it’s something Charles is all too used to, though of course with his telepathy he always knew when he was South which of his servants have taken a pay-off to report back on him or his family. Better not to have to worry about it at all, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“Can do,” Logan says, pushing off the wall. “When are we leaving?”

“As soon as we’re ready,” Charles says, through the tightness in his throat, and hopes to all the Gods that he’s not making a huge mistake.

~*~

If travelling to the North was hard, over the rocky terrain and wild, unpeopled lands, travelling back to the South with a young infant is worse.

Lorna cries for hours when they set off in the elderly carriage that Logan dug up from the stables, unsettled by the change in her routine and rattled around with Charles like dried peas in a jar, the padding on the seats old and a little musty from disuse. As far as Charles can tell it hasn’t been touched since Erik’s parents were alive, at least; the servants gave it as good a dusting and cleaning as they could in the scant hours before their departure, but he can’t really blame Lorna for wailing at the rumbling sound of the wheels on the hard and rocky road, the creaking of the wooden walls around them and the tossing, churning momentum of it. She clings to him with her small hands, rubbing her face in against his chest, not looking to feed but just for comfort, and all he can do is hold her close and, silently, beg her forgiveness. Raven, wisely, chose to ride; Charles only wishes he could have done the same.

Ironhold is all too soon hidden behind the rocky walls of the mountains, and the prospect of so long on the road, heading towards Shaw and his spiderweb of plots and politics, makes Charles want to cry, too. Instead he sits and stares out of the narrow window at the landscape passing by; and as he looks Charles can see a strange area of land, no more than an acre, where low-slung clouds are creeping across the earth like vaporous snakes, heavy and thick. It’s bizarre; the sky overhead is clear, so why would there be fog?

He sticks his head out of the carriage to shout forward to Logan, riding just ahead of the carriage. “What’s all that fog on the ground?”

Logan half-turns in the saddle, then slows his horse until he’s alongside the window, looking in at Charles. “What’s that?”

“The fog,” Charles says, pointing past Logan at where he saw it last, fuming above the ground. “It’s nearly summer and it’s midday, there shouldn’t be any fog, even this far north.”

“Oh, that.” Logan looks where Charles is pointing, but only as if to be sure of what he means, before looking back at Charles. “Steam vents, from underground. The volcano warms the water and it comes out as steam here. Stinks, too. Gotta say, it _is_ more active right now than I’ve seen it in a while. Maybe the volcano’s waking up.”

Charles can feel himself blanch a little bit, because he’s already seen the destruction left in the wake of the last time the volcano erupted -- lava fields and long, slick-smooth roads of hardened rock where flows of the stuff ran for miles across the countryside, destroying and burning everything in their wake. “Should we be worried for Ironhold?”

Logan shakes his head, though, shrugging. “Nah,” he says, adjusting his grip on the reins. “There’s a lot of energy under the earth here, but we get a lot of false alarms. Since it’s venting elsewhere, it means there’s less building up in the volcano. If it goes off, though -- well, Ironholders know what to do. There’s nothing you can do to stop it once the volcano gets going, so being here if it does won’t help any. Does put things in perspective, though, don’t it? Here we are worrying about the King, when right here we’ve got the most destructive shit heap on the face of the earth sitting on our doorstep. Nothing Shaw can do to us worse than that old mountain can, and there ain’t no reasoning with _it,_ neither.”

“I suppose,” Charles says, with a dry attempt at a smile, and though it’s gallows humour it does in fact make him feel better. “So you’re saying I should worry about the volcano instead?”

“Hell no. The volcano’ll just blow up and either kill you or it won’t, but it’ll be straightforward at least. The King’s a sadistic, black-hearted sonuvabitch and he’ll do it nasty.”

“Right,” Charles says, adjusting Lorna in his arms when she starts to squirm and cry again, and he makes himself keep smiling even though the pit of his stomach feels like it’s falling out with every rock they bump over. “Comforting. Thank you, Logan.”

Logan flashes his teeth, but it’s hard to call it a smile. “Don’t mention it.”

 

~*~

_Erik_

It’s a delicate affair, balancing death tolls across units, trying to make himself seem continually valuable to Shaw while at the same time undermining him. The most effective ways to wipe out an army are also the most visible, and Erik has to constrain himself to small measures that require far more concentration: making a sword miss by half an inch, causing an arrow to hit a target it would otherwise pass by, forcing blades into flesh just a little bit deeper. Soon it’s obvious the Svarti and Genoshan armies are evenly matched, with Erik’s units appearing to be the sole factor that keeps Genosha from bending entirely. Morale is low in the camps, and Erik soaks it in with a sick sense of relish; some of Shaw’s men are old enough to have been swords and shields in the main push of Shaw’s efforts to kill off the Frjáls. The blood of Erik’s people must have made them satisfied and lusty, back then. Now their own spilled blood dampens their spirits.

The Northern camps are still lively enough, and Erik spends most of his time there, with the people he trusts and with rations that, while certainly not the most luxurious of fare, in his opinion taste far better than what the Southerners have available. After dinner, in his tent, he pens letters to Charles that he knows won’t reach him for weeks.

_Dearest husband,_

_War is taking its toll on our Genoshan troops. There is talk that trade is poor, but few of the soldiers care about economic fluctuations: all it means to them is gruel instead of bread, and wild nuts instead of Southern pistachios. Wine has been watered down to 9 parts:1, but that is a blessing in disguise, as the only wine we’re receiving these days has long since turned to vinegar._

_Genosha has lost many men, but His Majesty King Sebastian is confident we will prevail. Soon we will return, victorious._

_As for myself, I was unexpectedly injured some weeks ago. The wound is healing well; do not waste your time worrying over it. It will be nothing but another nasty scar, and I have plenty of those already._

_I hope that Lorna is well. I miss both of you very much._

_Your faithful husband,  
Erik_

He dusts sand over the wet ink and sets the parchment on his small travel desk to dry. It’s dark out, perhaps getting close to midnight; despite the exhaustion of war Erik has found it difficult to sleep of late. Perhaps it’s the absence of the metal in the walls of Ironhold surrounding him. Perhaps it’s the absence of Charles.

Even so, he makes himself settle down on his bedroll and blow out the candle, casting the tent into shadow. But knowing he ought to fall asleep makes the act even harder to achieve; his thoughts keep skipping to new tangents, weaving elaborate ideas and plans that are increasingly difficult to dismiss. He is finally just trying to clear his mind and attempt to achieve sleep through meditation rather than willpower when there’s a loud _crack_ , accompanied by the overwhelming smell of sulphur. 

Erik lunges to the side, rolling across the floor. He can feel the air move as the stranger in his tent stabs down into the bedroll where Erik was lying, the thwip sound of ceramic slicing fabric. There’s no time to get up -- Erik lashes out with his legs, trying to catch the man and trip him.

He catches him -- just; but then the stranger leaps up into the air before he can fall, landing with a crash on top of the travel desk and cutting down at Erik with the shadow of a blade Erik can only just see in the dim light.

“ATTACK,” Erik shouts at the top of his lungs, chest burning as he rolls again, far enough away to scramble to his feet. He summons his own sword to his hand and brandishes it at the dark figure, even as he can hear the running footfalls of his own men outside the tent. “Who the fuck are you?”

There’s a white gleam of teeth catching the light as Captain Drake yanks open the tent flap, and then -- _crack_ , a huge billow of black smoke fills the tent with a terrible smell not unlike the steam vents in the North, and when Erik lashes out through the cloud, eyes watering, his sword meets no resistance. The stranger is gone -- vanished, into thin air.

 _Teleporter_ , Erik thinks, and Drake says: “I saw him, sir. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Erik says, but he doesn’t put down his sword. Not yet. Behind him his bedroll is bleeding down feathers. At least that’s the worst of the damage. Only … no. No, it isn’t. Erik kneels down and picks up his letter to Charles from where it’s fallen on the ground face-down and turns it over in his hand; the ink is smeared to the point of illegibility. Erik holds back a sigh. “Drake, set up an armed guard within my tent and without for the rest of the night. Three hour shifts; I don’t want anyone being anything less than completely alert.” He glances down again at the parchment in his hand. “And bring me some pumice powder.” With trade in short supply, they can’t be wasting paper; he’ll have to make a palimpsest of it.

Drake bows and exits. After a moment’s hesitation Erik picks up his sheath and puts his sword away; the assassin won’t be back so soon after his most recent attempt. Waiting for Captain Drake to return, he settles down on the ground and retrieves his spare needle and thread from his pack, sewing up the tear in his bedroll. If he dies at an assassin’s blade, fine, but he won’t die in battle because he’s too busy sniffing his nose and rubbing his itchy eyes to see the arrows coming. 

So. His mysterious assassin can teleport, then. It certainly explains why he couldn’t be found in the woods the day he shot Erik with the arrow. He was dark-skinned, as well, the best Erik could tell in the dim light. An Islander, perhaps -- forced into Shaw’s service against his will? Or maybe not, he thinks, remembering the bright gleam of that smile right before the man vanished. No Islander would be so pleased at doing Shaw’s dirty work.

He knots off the darn in his bedding just as Captain Drake returns, accompanied by one of Erik’s Frjáls sargeants. 

“Olvirsson here is taking first watch,” Drake says, and he hands Erik a bag of powdered pumice. “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“No. Thank you, Captain.” 

Olvirsson stands at attention near the entrance of Erik’s tent as Erik crouches down to try to mend his travel table. The wood is splintered beyond repair with the tools he has on hand, but he manages to stretch one of the nails down through the leg as a stopgap. It wobbles a little when he rests the weight of his elbows upon it, but for now it will suffice. 

It takes a reasonable amount of effort, scrubbing the pumice into the parchment to scrape off the mottled ink, but it’s mindless work and Erik doubts he’ll be getting any more sleep tonight. Shaw will hear of what happened. He perhaps already has. Another failed attempt; Erik can only expect he’ll redouble his efforts next time. So, Erik needs to find this teleporter before he wakes up with a ceramic knife through his throat. There are ways to do it that require more or less effort, and ideally Erik would have this assassin’s name before Shaw even learned of the attack….

He sets the parchment aside and stands. “Stay here,” he orders Olvirsson as he ducks out of the tent, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

His horse is tethered with the other officers’ stallions near the armory. Erik doesn’t bother saddling him, just swings up onto his bare back and nudges his heels in at the ribs; Skyggnir breaks into a canter, the fastest pace Erik is willing to risk in front of witnesses as he leads the horse through the Northern camps and toward the west and the red flags of House Shaw.

“General Lehnsherr,” one of Shaw’s aides greets him as he dismounts, taking Skyggnir’s reins in one gloved hand. “How can I be of service?”

“I need to speak with His Majesty,” Erik says, and he’s hated Shaw long enough that his voice manages to remain completely even despite the way his pulse is hammering at his throat.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“Tell him I am requesting a list of those Gifted soldiers within the combined Genoshan armies, and would like to discuss the construction of a specialized Gifted unit to combat our enemy.” If Shaw has heard of the most recent attack, knows Erik saw his assassin, this will be transparent. If not … well, Shaw can’t refuse him the list either way. His assassin’s name will be on it, or it will be conspicuously missing a combat-skilled teleporter.

“I’m sorry, your Grace, but His Majesty the King has returned to the Capital. He will not return for some weeks.”

Erik lifts an eyebrow. “And you did not see fit to tell me this _before_ \--”

“Is that Duke Lehnsherr?” The pretty teenage alpha from before -- Jubilee, Erik thinks her name was -- comes out of Shaw’s tent, pink-cheeked and clutching a scroll of parchment in her hand. “Your Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt. King Sebastian told me to give you this.” She holds out the scroll.

It’s sealed with red wax and Shaw’s coat of arms: a crown crossed by a hammer and a sword. Erik slides his thumb under the seal and unrolls the parchment in front of them. It was penned by Shaw personally, which is surprising; usually he’d have a scribe do it, but Erik would recognise that curling script anywhere.

 _My dearest Erik -_ (Already, Erik’s brows are rising further.)

_I regret I could not tell you this in person, although I am sure you understand that the schedule of a King rarely allows such leniency. I’ve summoned your omega to court in Hammer Bay so that we may acknowledge your child and bless her as the heir to the Northern duchy. I very much look forward to meeting your omega again, as well as your daughter, and to offering them the hospitalities of the Southern court with which you yourself are so familiar from your time fostering here._

_I know you would wish to be at their side at this auspicious time, young Erik, but your presence is so needed at the front. I will give them your kindest regards._

_Signed,_  
His Royal Majesty Sebastian Shaw of Genosha, Lord of the Amber Islands and Guardian of the North  


“...Your Grace?” Jubilee says, and Erik realises belatedly that he’s gripping the parchment so hard it’s nearly tearing in half. 

“Thank you, Jubilee,” Erik makes himself say, rolling the parchment up and tucking it into his belt near his sword. He should say something else, should excuse himself, but the words won’t come. Jubilee and the aide are both staring at him, the latter looking a bit shifty in Erik’s estimation, and for one brief moment Erik hates that man, if for no reason than being in front of him and for wearing Shaw’s colours on his tunic. Erik takes his reins back from the aide and swings up onto Skyggnir’s back, kicking harder than he meant to at the stallion’s sides. 

His mind is a dark blur of anger and suspicion -- and fear -- as he rides back to the Northern camp. He doesn’t bother tethering Skyggnir, just tosses the reins to a nearby soldier who catches them one-handed, and demands, “Saddle my horse. And fill the saddlebags with enough water and food for a three day journey.”

Olvirsson is still in his tent when Erik strides inside, going immediately to the corner to grab his battered pack, all his knives which had been out for sharpening flying back into the sheaths concealed at his ankles, his forearms, his thigh. The closeness of the steel feels good, even if it doesn’t offset the agitation that roils through his gut. “Olvirsson, get me Captain Drake.”

“Your Grace, should I find someone to stand guard while I --”

“No. Go now.”

Olvirsson goes. The tent flap falls behind him and leaves Erik standing in the dark alone. He’s shaking, he notices, a tremor that is rooted in his bones and rattles out to his fingers, which are curling into fists. Shaw has Charles. Shaw has his _daughter._ It’s a threat, it’s an obvious threat -- Shaw’s attempting to use his family as leverage, he must have noticed Erik helping the Svarti -- Erik’s memory flashes back to the image of Shaw, on horseback, watching the battle from atop that hill …. The message is clear. _Obey me, or your family will meet a fate worse than death._

Remaining at the front, as instructed, does not even occur to him. His mind is fixated now on getting to the Capital as soon as he can, finding Charles and ensuring Shaw never so much as lays a finger on him, or Lorna. He would declare war immediately on the South rather than let Shaw close to either of them, damn these Svarti plans to hell, but there’s no telling when Shaw left, how much of a head start he’s already had, though if he has that teleporter he could have been in Hammer Bay for days already. Erik might not make it in time. There are plenty of tortures Shaw can inflict on his family without outright killing them. Erik knows from experience.

“Sir?” Drake is at the tent door, leaning over to poke his head through. “You sent for me?”

“I’m riding to the Capital,” Erik says, following Drake out into the near-empty camp; except for a few stragglers, all the soldiers are still asleep. “I don’t know when I’ll return. I want you to lead the troops in my stead.”

Bless him by all the dragons, Drake doesn’t question it. “Of course, your Grace. I would be honoured.”

“You know the strategies well enough. I trust you.”

His horse is saddled and already laden with bags of supplies, the burlap straining at the seams. Erik swings himself up onto Skyggnir’s back and meets Captain Drake’s eye one last time. He doesn’t have to say anything; Drake bows his head and Erik tugs at Skyggnir’s reins, turning him to head down the narrow dirt path winding between tents and campfires, until at last he breaks into open field and can ram his heels into Skyggnir’s sides, forcing him into a hard gallop.

~*~

_Charles_

They ride into Hammer Bay two months after leaving the North, with pennants flying from the corners of the coach and the horses lathering at the bit, tired and sweating in the summer heat; their glossy coats are sheened with moisture, rolling as the horses flick away flies, and Charles looks out the window at the city as they pass through the Northern Gate, taking it in with a sort of poisoned nostalgia that permeates the thick air here, the sun making everything golden.

The Capital is built on a hill overlooking the sea, white houses like chalky mushrooms peppering its sides in great profusion and in long, upward-curving lines, following its contours; Charles had been able to hear it approaching for days, a huge hubbub of disparate voices like the sea itself, so many minds in so small an area, a great ocean of sound that kept him awake at night after the blessed quiet of the North. It’s familiar, of course, and a part of him is relieved to be back on known soil, where he knows the rules and how to behave.

The rest of him is well aware that once he understood the North, all the South’s flaws became as obvious to him as cracks in the shell of an egg, the rotten albumen seeping out and spreading its stink across the landscape.

They take the most direct route to the palace, which is to say that they loop back and forth across Hammer Hill, working their way upwards on each turn; an invading army would have to cross five or ten times the ground to take the top of the hill, with defenders beating them back down at every corner. Lorna is getting big now, and at six months old she’s starting to get really curious about the world, squirming at every new noise and smell and trying to look outside. Charles lifts Lorna to rest against his shoulder so they can both look out the window, and she stares, wide-eyed, at the passing market stalls, the horses and people in bright-coloured clothing.

“Pretty,” Charles says to her, stroking her little cheek with his fingertip as she makes grabby shapes with her hands, entranced.

“Baaa,” Lorna says, and across from Charles Raven smiles at her, reaching out to place her finger in Lorna’s tight little grip, looking just as unhappy as Charles feels.

“Not far to go, now,” Raven says, looking back out the window again, the sunlight reflecting blue glints from her scales onto the inside of the carriage. “Are you sure about this, Charles? We could still turn around. It’s not too late.”

“It’s far too late,” Charles murmurs back, and smiles tightly, knowing that they’re almost at the top of the hill -- almost, he thinks, in the monster’s lair. “Nearly there, sweetheart,” he murmurs to the baby, and lifts Lorna back down into his lap so he can sit, picture-perfect, as they pass through the gates of the palace.

The Royal Palace is the largest, whitest, grandest monstrosity of them all. They enter the first courtyard after inspection by the first set of guards, only to have to cross into a second, smaller, and then a third; by the time they reach the third courtyard Lorna is fussing hungrily, tugging at Charles’ shirt and whimpering at him whenever she thinks she has his attention, her thoughts all food and directed at him, trying to make him respond telepathically -- something she learned on the way South, that Charles hopes Emma Frost doesn’t pick up on.

Still. Lorna is going to have to wait, because there is a small gathering crowd at the open doors to the inner palace, and Charles cannot afford, as heartbreaking as it is, to pause to feed Lorna now, when half of his political power here in the capital will depend upon the elegance of his entrance.

“Can you take Lorna?” he asks Raven, and she nods, reaching out to take hold of the baby and draw her in against her white tunic. Lorna squirms and whines, but the carriage has come to a stop. A valet opens the carriage door, and Charles steps out into the hot sun onto the paving stones, chin carried high and face neutral, pleasant, and showing nothing of his feelings at all.

“Your Grace,” the valet murmurs, and Charles nods politely before getting out of Raven’s way so she can descend as well.

“My Lady,” the valet greets Raven somewhere behind Charles, but he is already walking forward to offer his hand to the man standing at the front of the crowd, who is watching Charles like every millimetre of him is of potential use.

“Lord Stryker,” Charles says, and smiles serenely as the man bows over his hand -- obsequious manners, he can’t help but think with the part of him that sounds like Erik, now -- and then straightens, giving Charles a smile just as fake as his own.

“The King requested I bring you to meet with him at once, your Grace,” Lord Jason Stryker says, his odd, washed-out mismatching eyes too slow to blink, disturbing even among the Gifted. “He is just back from the front himself, and impatient to see you and your child.”

Charles’ smile curls upward just a little more, calculated, even though his skin is crawling. “Of course,” he says, with a brief bow to Lord Stryker, neither too shallow nor too deep. “Please, lead the way.” He turns to glance back at Raven, and she catches his meaning at once, coming up alongside him and handing Lorna back to him so that she can place a hand on the small of his back and move freely alongside him as an alpha escort.

It’s a long walk to the throne room, along marble corridors hung with silk tapestries and through open colonnades and gardens, everything in the palace measured to perfect beauty and all of it false, mechanical in its precision and engineered to excess. Stryker walks ahead of them thinking already of what he has to do for the rest of the day, household duties and administration alike -- being the King’s Steward is a busy job, and it gives Charles the freedom to look around them as they walk, noting the nobles they pass and the looks they give him.

 _Everyone I’ve seen so far is one of Shaw’s inner circle, or aspires to be,_ he says to Raven silently, joggling a still whining Lorna against his shoulder and shushing her, hoping that Shaw will keep things brief and he can feed her then. It feels cruel, to make her wait, but now is the worst time in the world to pause, and more dangerous for her if he does, and disobeys even the most minor of Shaw’s ‘requests’.

 _And the biggest gossips, too,_ Raven notes, her own eyes on their surroundings, too, giving away nothing of their conversation. _He’s setting a scene for something, not just keeping you here._

Charles bows his head to a passing Earl, keeping his own expression calm and blank. _We’ll have to keep our ears open and try to find out what,_ he says, but although he listens to the minds of everyone they pass before they reach the throne room he hears nothing of use, just banal, everyday thoughts and passing unpleasantness.

And then --

The double doors that lead to the throne room are three metres high, already open, and there is no excuse, now, to step away from the long, black velvet carpet that leads to the throne at the far end of the room -- and to its occupant, sat watching them approach with one ankle resting on his opposite knee, his chin resting on his fisted hand, eyes and mind as cold and passionless as stars.

Shaw is thinking of Charles and Raven dead, imagining in great detail their bodies upon the velvet carpet, bleeding into it.

“Young Lord Xavier,” he calls before they have even reached the dais, his voice echoing from the walls and giving away nothing of what he’s thinking, cheerful and false. “And Lady Raven. What a pleasure to have both scions of the House of Xavier at once.”

They bow together, Lorna fussing at being tipped forward. Shaw’s mouth quirks upwards, a parody of pleasure. “Ah! And this is the young Duchess-to-be,” he says, leaning forward to peer at Lorna, who is struck suddenly shy; she stares at the King for one long moment, eyes wide, before burying her face in Charles’ neck, little hands clenching tightly against his chest, her breath coming out in a whimper. “Congratulations. I trust she is in good health?”

“Excellent health, your Majesty,” Charles says, keeping his head bowed in perfect form, though his eyes look up through his lashes to watch the King’s expression. “Thank you so much for your kind invitation.”

It’s almost impossible to ignore the fact that the throne Shaw sits upon is carved in the likeness of an enormous dead dragon, tongue lolling, its seat the bent hind leg of the beast, which looks disturbingly like the she-dragon Rók. 

“Not at all,” Shaw says, beaming genially at all three of them, in his mind’s eye cutting Charles’ throat in front of Erik, a long, ceramic knife in his hand, blood pouring out over the blade; Charles has to exert all of his effort not to flinch. “Not at all. I have such a special relationship with your husband -- he was my fosterling, you know, as a child -- that I couldn’t just allow the event of his firstborn to pass without ceremony. A shame that it happened so soon before the war began, but if we allowed our enemies to disrupt our happy home lives then we would have nothing to return to.”

Charles has the sudden and horrible thought that Shaw might ask to _hold_ Lorna.

“A shame the child is so timid,” Shaw says, instead, turning his eyes on Lorna, steady and calculating. “Though perhaps Erik was a little shy, too, before I taught him to be a man. The child is not an alpha, I understand?”

“No, your Majesty,” Charles says, and he decidedly does not think of all the things that he has seen in Erik’s mind, memories of Shaw’s … teaching methods. “She is not.”

“A true shame,” Shaw murmurs, then seems to catch himself, turning on that false smile again, though it’s undermined entirely by the coldness of his eyes. “Well. In any case, she is Erik’s firstborn, and no matter her gender we will go ahead with the acknowledgement, to make sure everything is ratified and blessed by the church. I know it has been a long journey for you, so I have arranged everything myself, to happen one week hence, here in the palace. I trust that is acceptable?”

What else is there to say, but, “Very much so, your Majesty is very gracious,” and for Charles to bow deeper, once more, all the time wondering how long it will be until he can find a way out of this trap.

~*~

The rooms Charles has been assigned are in the Southern wing of the palace, overlooking the cliffs on one side -- a sheer drop of hundreds of feet, impossible for anyone but a very talented Gifted to scale -- and on the other looking into one of the many small gardens enclosed within the palace itself, lush and full of night-scented flowers, their blooms tightly budded for now in the heat of the day. It’s not hard to work out that being given the end room of the corridor puts Charles, Lorna, and Raven in the most isolated part of the palace, trapped on the one side by the sea and open to attack from within on the other.

Logan takes one look at the rooms and his expression darkens, getting darker every moment as he stalks through the suite, checking for threats.

“About as defensible as a straw hut,” he says when he comes back to where Charles and Raven are stood in the entryway, his brow creased so deeply it looks almost painful. “This place is a death trap waiting to be sprung.”

“Refusing the rooms would be an insult to the King,” Charles says, frustration bubbling up inside of him; it feels like everything inside of him is coiling and uncoiling, muscles knotted as though they’re each forming their own fists. “Nobody is listening right now, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t spy holes, either. I’ll need to keep an ear on the walls.”

Logan just grunts, and Raven walks past Charles to go and explore the rooms for herself, her step quick and light, as though she expects to surprise someone around every corner.

Right now, though, the only thing Charles is concerned with is feeding Lorna, who has started fussing again, her mind a thin whine of discomfort and unhappiness. He takes a seat at a low table by the seaward window and rummages around in the bag Logan brought in with him -- the rest of their luggage is to follow, but in here are the small prepared jars of mushed food for Lorna, and a little spoon. Charles takes one of them out and removes the waxed linen seal to scoop out the first spoonful.

“Maaaaa,” Lorna says as soon as she sees it, hands grabbing towards it, and she opens her mouth wide for Charles to put the food on her tongue.

Raven comes back halfway through the jar, pausing only for her mouth to quirk in amusement at the state of Charles’ shirt, smeared orange from the food; in her hands is a collection of papers Charles doesn’t recognise, and he raises an eyebrow at her, even as he tries to get Lorna’s attention back. “What are those?”

“Invitations,” Raven says, and sets them down on the tabletop for Charles to leaf through between spoonfuls.

Lord Essex -- _he’s_ here?, Charles thinks -- Baron Grey, Earl Wyngarde, even Lady Pryor has sent an invitation to traverse the gardens with her some time this week, despite the fact that her house has long been wary of having anything to do with the Xaviers. 

“Well, this is interesting,” Charles says, spooning another lump of mashed carrot into Lorna’s now vegetable-covered mouth. “None of these are invitations I would have expected, even now that I’m technically a Lehnsherr instead of an Xavier. I suspect the King has asked some of his cronies to make friends.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Raven tugs the letters back over, flicking through them again. “Though if that’s what this is about then he’d have to be a total moron to think you’d make friends with any of these people. Not to mention the fact they’re almost all alphas -- which, _highly_ inappropriate.”

Charles hums his agreement, finally scraping out the last of Lorna’s food and lifting the spoon to her lips; at first she purses them tightly, refusing to take it, but after a little coaxing she finally licks it off the spoon, her thoughts now contented again, so easily restored to happiness. “It’s like he’s setting up a whole field of traps,” Charles says, setting the jar aside and looking ruefully down at his good shirt. “Clearly indefensible rooms that I can’t object to. Overtures from alphas and betas who could easily claim I was unfaithful to Erik and have me tried for adultery. Having me here in the first place, with no choice but to bring my child into his grasp. Shaw is trying to trip me up.”

“My advice?” Logan says, stomping through the room again, as though checking each of them three times will yield a different result. “Don’t trip.”

“Helpful,” Charles says dryly, glancing towards the corridor as a group of minds approaches -- but it’s just some footmen with their luggage, bringing it inside and bowing respectfully to Charles.

“Where would you like your things put, your Grace?” one of them asks, hefting the large chest containing Charles’ wardrobe in his burly arms.

“Please, just leave them inside the door and my own men will take care of them,” Charles says, visions of Shaw receiving reports on the state of Charles’ underwear dancing through his head. “Thank you.” He digs in his pocket for a coin and finds a silver piece that he tosses to the one who spoke, saying, “Share that between you.”

“Your Grace,” and they leave, gleeful thoughts in each of their minds at the tip.

“I need to change,” Charles says once they’re alone again, getting to his feet and looking towards the bedroom, wondering if there’s a cot set up for Lorna. “And then I think we should be ready for whatever Shaw has planned next.”

~*~

That evening Charles leaves Lorna in the care of one of the few servants they brought down with them from the North and attends, reluctantly, dinner at the King’s table, with Raven as escort. It’s strange to be the one acknowledged first, these days -- as the consort of a Duke Charles has the rank of Duke himself, which leaves Raven a step below him, as she’s not yet inherited her own title. He has to remind himself that this is who he is now, not Raven’s omega brother but her senior in nobility, and yet -- it makes it even more of a farce, really, that he may be her senior but he still needs her escort in order to be ‘proper’ in the eyes of the court.

Dinner in the Capital is set at three long tables that run the length of the great hall, with proper chairs instead of benches and, at the top table, plates edged with gilt; the flagons are true glass, rare and expensive, and when Charles takes his seat he can’t help but compare it to the rough simplicity of the North, and find the Southern table far more beautiful. There is something to be said, after all, for fine things, and Charles is a child of the South, even now.

A shame that his dining companions are not as fine.

Baron Grey, sat on Charles’ left, is a stodgy old beta in his late sixties, set in his ways and disinclined to like Charles simply because he is an Xavier; ironic, given that his daughter is a member of Raven’s little club of likeminded young nobles, and a telepath to boot. And to his right is Earl Azazel Rasputin, a red-skinned Gifted alpha with a long, sinuous tail and teeth a little too sharp to be entirely comfortable, his blue eyes just as winter pale as Shaw’s, who wears a perpetual air of amusement.

Lady Salvadore across from him is the least objectionable, her gossamer wings flickering in the still air. “How are you finding the North?” she asks, with a smile that’s no doubt supposed to be sympathetic. “I imagine it must be a luxury now to be down here, in the warmth!”

“A little,” Charles says honestly, though his expression is banally amused, carefully measured to appear more open than it really is. “Though it’s nowhere near as bad as talk would have it in the summer, in the winter I only ventured outside when there was no other choice. I’m very much a Southern blood in that respect!”

The lady smiles, then leans forward across the table, her voice dropping, conspiratorial. “Is it true that the Snowlanders have been massing for an attack on the North? I heard they’d been killing the alphas and dragging away the omegas and beta women to their glacier!”

And that’s -- Charles isn’t sure how to answer, because it’s most definitely a falsehood, but to call it so when he suspects Shaw was the one who started the rumour is another pitfall he would prefer to avoid. He can feel the sudden attention of the men on either side of him, particularly Lord Azazel, whose mind sharpens like a whetted knife. “Not to my knowledge,” Charles says, feeling guilty for not defending the Frjáls people, like a lump in the pit of his stomach. “But I’m not involved in military matters. My husband takes care of that.”

“But who takes care of your husband?” Lord Azazel asks, with a smile that could cut air, and Charles sees, in his mind -- another blade cutting air, slashing at Erik’s face, missing only by a breath. He tops up Charles’ wine with a flourish.

Charles stiffens in his chair, can’t help but react, and though he manages to keep his face neutral every fibre of his being wants to throw himself body and mind at Azazel, rend him limb from limb before he is able to try again to hurt Erik. His hands have curled into fists in his lap, and he hides them under his napkin, to conceal their trembling malice.

“I do,” Charles says, his voice light and warm, but inside he is contemplating murder.

“A shame we do not have you on the battlefield, then,” Lord Azazel says, nodding politely at Charles and raising his flagon. “In the face of such ferocity, the Svarti would beg to surrender!”

“Grr,” Charles says, playing along, and thinks, _Somehow I am going to kill you, or ruin you, one way or another._

Lady Salvadore laughs, but only briefly before she turns her gaze down at her plate, wings stilling for a moment in their steady flutter. “So many are dying,” she says quietly, thinking of her brother, her father, both of whom are away at war along with the rest of the army. “We’re holding our own, but only by spending bucketloads of Genoshan blood. If it weren’t for the North, we’d have been overrun by now, I’ve heard it said.”

Charles hasn’t heard much of the war while he’s been travelling, moving too quickly and through too small towns and villages to catch up to any good gossip, and so at this he dares a dip into the lady’s mind, glancing over what she knows, and filling out more from his own suppositions. “Erik is a strong fighter,” he says, trying to sound modest but knowing a little of his genuine pride comes through anyway. “He and the Northern armies train very hard. I’m glad it’s paying off.”

“Are you saying Southerners don’t train hard?” Lady Salvadore asks, temper flaring all of a sudden as her family pops into her mind again, and Charles says, “No, not at all, simply that -- ”

“Humph,” Baron Grey interrupts from Charles’ other side, moustache bristling. “Let’s talk of lighter things, this war is giving me indigestion.” He himself has three sons at the front; Charles can see them in his thoughts, and his fears.

It’s hard to stay calm and neutral on the surface and not to show any of the guilt he feels for knowing all too well that the plan he and Erik came up with together is what will more than likely get all of their loved ones killed. That it is in fact the main aim of their plan. Regardless of the higher purpose behind it, it was an easier plan to contemplate when he wasn’t sat here at table with the doomed soldiers’ families.

Conversation turns onto less troubling topics -- the last hunt, the next one upcoming in a few days’ time, the interference of the Svarti raids in the South with the proper flow of trade -- and for a while Charles contributes as normal. But after the final savoury course is served, while the plates are being cleared for dessert, he starts to feel rather warm, despite the light fabric of his tunic and the open colonnade behind them letting in the evening air. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, earning a concerned glance from Raven, sat further down the table; when he gives her a tiny shrug she looks away again, but he can hear her thinking that he looks rather flushed, like maybe he’s had too much wine.

Beside him Lord Azazel pauses in his conversation and inhales in a way that could be casual, save for its depth; a deep inward rush of air followed by a change in his expression that Charles doesn’t like, his face becoming almost vulpine, sharp and pleased as he turns his attention for a long moment onto Charles, half-turning in his seat to inhale again, more deeply, in a way that is entirely rude.

“Excuse me,” Lord Azazel says before Charles can object, and rises from his seat in one smooth movement, before striding swiftly over to where the King is sitting and leaning down to murmur in his ear, both of their gazes flickering over to Charles and staying there, heavy and unnerving. After a few moments Lord Azazel vanishes with a loud _crack_ and a billow of smoke that sets some of the diners nearby to choking.

Something is wrong. Charles’ skin is prickling and tingling all over, one big itch, and he feels restless and uneasy, the sudden sea change of it making him shift again, fidgeting in a way his mother would never allow. Charles tugs with two fingers at the collar of his tunic, knowing that it’s not elegant but needing the cool air on his body regardless.

He hasn’t felt this way since … since … oh, _fuck_.

Beside him Baron Grey is sitting up straighter too, his full attention on Charles, and his expression is one of surprised disgust. “Gods’ sake, boy,” he says, loudly enough that people all along the table stop talking to stare, “If you’re going into heat stay in your own damn rooms instead of floozying around like some kind of harlot!”

It has to have been something in his food, Charles thinks dazedly, too taken off-guard to be anything but stunned and horrified; now that he’s worked out what it is he can feel the telltale signs of a heat flooding through his body, pumping out pheromones and overheating him from the inside out, but all of it far too fast to be natural, and at the wrong time of year, too -- Charles shouldn’t be due a heat for another three months at least, and never has it come on so quickly, so all-consuming in its fever. 

Azazel had refilled his wine, when that is normally a job for servants.

Charles staggers to his feet, pushing away from the table, and everyone is staring, some horrified, others with the same sort of look on their faces that Azazel had, because Charles is _in heat_ , and his alpha isn’t here.

“Your Grace,” Shaw calls over the hubbub of voices, and when Charles jerks around to look at him Shaw’s face is all concern but his eyes are fiercely victorious, burning with the same unpleasant fire that’s scorching Charles from the inside out, appearing through the dissipating smoke like glowing coals. “Forgive the indelicacy of the question, but is Baron Grey correct? Are you going into heat?”

Raven is coming around the end of the table, hurrying to reach him, but Charles can only say, teeth clenched, “Yes, your Majesty, I’m afraid so. Please may I be excused to take care of this, and my apologies for the disruption of your dinner.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Shaw says, and gets up from his chair at the head of the table, walking slowly towards Charles. Everything in his mind is screaming _victory_. “In the absence of your own alpha, it is of course my duty as your Sovereign to take care of you and to help you through your heat myself.”

~*~  


_Erik_

He rides through the night, over the flat fields of the east with the starry sky sprawling overhead. It should be beautiful, the glitter of those tiny lights on the horizon, tall silvery grass swaying in the wind, the world as pale and silent as if it were made from glass. But Erik scarcely notices at all. His mind is locked on Shaw, the years-old hatred burning young in him again, chasing away his exhaustion and leaving him feeling too-awake and unable to think of anything else. 

Skyggnir races beneath him, urged on by Erik’s heels kicking bruises against his ribs, sides heaving and frothy, foam flicking out to catch on the fabric of Erik’s trousers, soaking them. _”Hraðar,_ ” Erik demands, snapping the reins and gritting his teeth against Skyggnir’s pained whinny; he’s driving the beast too hard, knows that, knows no horse can take what he’s trying to give. But Skyggnir’s been Erik’s since he was a foal, and he’ll ride as long as Erik tells him to.

Three days’ ride -- it’s not long enough, not nearly enough. Shaw won’t waste time on anything but the most necessary of pleasantries -- Erik spent four years as his fosterling, and that was more than enough time to learn the measure of a man. Like this, riding without other occupation, Erik’s mind keeps unavoidably turning to memories of his past in Shaw’s care, imagining Shaw bestowing the same graces upon Charles. It makes him want to vomit, his gorge rising in the back of his throat so hard and fast he has to forcibly swallow it down again. 

He wants to think Shaw wouldn’t, that because Charles isn’t an alpha that chivalry will preserve him, but he knows better. It’s not about Charles. Erik’s the one Shaw is desperate to control, control or kill, and it doesn’t matter that Erik’s two-and-thirty -- Shaw would extend his childhood indefinitely, keep him locked in perpetual adolescence dangling off Shaw’s puppet-strings. 

Perhaps Shaw is only holding Charles as leverage. But Erik knows better than to believe that would be enough for him. Shaw’s a sadist; he delights in pain and in believing he has the power to bend even the strongest alpha to his will if he inflicts enough hurt. No. Charles is in more imminent danger than Charles likely realizes, no matter what scars he’s seen in Erik’s memory.

The sky is darkening now, clouds drifting in from the north and building overhead, threateningly thick. The loss of moonlight forces Erik’s eyes to adjust to the misshapen shadows of the wild, the landscape becoming a place full of unfamiliar and threatening things: unseen rocks, ditches that might go unnoticed until it’s too late. Skyggnir is flagging; Erik hisses a sharp sound between his teeth and pulls a knife from his wrist sheath. Guilt stings at him, but there’s no real choice; he digs the blade into Skyggnir’s flank and yanks it back; Skyggnir whines and a burst of iron explodes into Erik’s metal-sense, blood hot on knife-steel.

The pain has given Skyggnir new wind; he gallops like hell itself is at his heels, the wind whipping through Erik’s hair and pulling tears to his eyes, cheeks feeling burnt with it. _Charles, Charles, Charles._ The pound of Skyggnir’s hooves on the ground beats Charles’ name into Erik’s skull. Maybe Charles could withstand the sort of pain Shaw dishes out. But he shouldn’t have to. And not on Erik’s account.

Erik rides Skyggnir until the stallion can go no longer; he moans, a bone-chilling sound as his legs buckle and both horse and rider crumple down into the dirt. Erik rolls off just in time to keep from having his own leg crushed, the hilt of his sword digging into his hip as he falls on it. Sudden pain lances up toward his ribs, but he pushes it away, making himself get up and stumble to where Skyggnir lays, heaving and shuddering in the tall grass. 

Skyggnir’s eyes are almost all whites, rolling back in his head, lips pulled back to bare his teeth as he huffs out heavy breaths. “ _Fyrirgefðu,"_ Erik whispers. _I’m sorry._ He drives the blade of his knife down between Skyggnir’s eyes, using his power to force the metal through bone and into the trembling meat of the brain. It’s an act of mercy. Skyggnir’s body shudders, once, and Erik watches the life leave his eyes; it hurts, stinging below his breastbone, to kill a creature he raised himself, but for Charles, it’s worth the price.

Erik wipes the blade on his horse’s coat with a shaking hand and puts it away, rising up to his feet. His own legs ache from riding, thighs raw, but he forces himself to pace, stretching out the stinging muscle, as he considers what to do now. He’s covered perhaps two days’ ground in one, but that still leaves him a day’s ride from the Capital, and Charles. There must be a town, somewhere -- he tries to draw up maps of the area in his memory, to place unfamiliar names with this landscape. If he can find even a small encampment then he can demand a horse, banking on his title as currency. 

He’s barely been off his saddle two minutes when that telltale _crack_ splits the air again.

Erik immediately drops to his stomach on the ground, just barely missing the ceramic blade that slices overhead, close enough to clip his hair. He throws out his power and seizes every piece of metal he can grasp and surges to one side, rolling onto his back as the sword comes down again, aiming for his heart.

Erik growls, loud and threatening, the sound ripped from his chest on instinct, and one of his own knives, summoned from the saddle still buckled around Skyggnir’s corpse, plunges into the back of the assassin’s calf. The man yelps, then curses in an unfamiliar language and - _crack_ \- vanishes again. 

Erik is on his feet a second later, sword in hand and all the blades in his possession floating in midair, poised to strike, except one, the knife lodged in the assassin’s leg. He stretches out his metal-sense but … nothing. Out of range. 

He waits like that, standing half-crouched with his sword extended, every part of him tingling with the uneasy heat of fear. There’s a low rumble in the distance, and it takes Erik’s mind a second to place it as thunder. His muscles tighten slightly despite himself; the rain will dampen the scent of sulphur, make it more difficult to track the assassin’s appearance and disappearance. He won’t let this be the way he dies: sodden and alone in a Southern field, far from his husband and child, his people not yet avenged.

He feels the metal singe of blood a split second before he hears the sound of the assassin’s return. He spins around to block the man’s sword just in time, steel clashing against ceramic. It’s the first time he’s had a good look at the assassin’s face: he’s a harsh-looking man, skin split by a scar that carves down from his brow to his cheek over one pale eye, his hair and beard black as ink. He’s snarling at Erik, sharp teeth bared, pumping out alpha scent in reaction to the injury in his leg. 

Erik lunges forward, swinging for the assassin’s gut; he’s blocked easily. The man reacts with a forward jab and Erik parries, skipping back a step to keep from losing his balance from the force of the attack. It’s obvious this man is an expert swordsman; Erik’s best bet lies with his own Gift. He snaps the knife in the assassin’s leg with a burst of his own power, the blade and hilt falling into the grass but leaving the broken-off tip buried deep in flesh. It won’t be easy to remove; Erik can track him like that, no matter how often he teleports.

Erik grabs at the knives still floating in midair and sends them hurtling toward the swordsman. The assassin swears violently and vanishes, but not before Erik feels the heat of blood on one of the blades again. 

_Nice try, Shaw_ , he thinks viciously. _I’m still winning._

Another _crack_ -ing sound and the assassin reappears, directly behind Erik. He only just has time to lunge to the left and avoid having his throat slit. The ceramic blade catches his neck all the same -- a flash of pain, but it’s missed his jugular; Erik yells and blocks the next strike, sending his knives shooting toward the man, aiming for pulse points. The assassin disappears again just in time, and Erik’s blades cut through nothing but air.

It’s raining now, fat drops falling hard and fast on the field, soaking Erik’s black fighting uniform and lifting the smell of blood -- his, Skyggnir’s, the assassin’s -- into the heavy air. When the assassin returns Erik is ready for him, catching his blade before he can hit flesh. They fight brutally, both injured now, and Erik, the blood from his neck seeping into his shirt, can’t help thinking Shaw must have told this man not to fail again -- not to return unless Erik was dead. It explains why he keeps coming back, even now that Erik’s cut him. 

The assassin vanishes often, every time Erik’s knives attempt a strike, but he never stays gone for long anymore. He anticipates Erik’s feints with both sword and daggers and dodges or teleports, forcing Erik to reorient every time he disappears and reappears. He’s trying to wear him out, Erik realizes. Keep Erik spinning and dancing until his body gives way. 

There’s a snap of white lightning overhead, and thunder follows soon after, the assassin on its heels, returning from another quick escape via teleportation. Erik parries his strike and makes one of his own, snapping a knife around and aiming to cut the tendons at the backs of the man’s ankles. The man vanishes and reappears, and this time he’s close -- but Erik was already waiting for it. With a yell of triumph, he snaps his sword against the assassin’s, and melts it on impact, fusing metal around the ceramic blade and ripping the sword from the assassin’s grip.

“Time to die,” Erik says, and he holds out a hand to send a knife to the assassin’s throat --

\-- but the assassin growls, lurching forward; before Erik can react the man has an arm around his back and they’re _crack_ ing out of existence, together, and all Erik can smell is sulphur -- he’s gagging on it, and they’re rushing through nothingness, through space, and he’s yelling but there’s no sound, nothing but the rush of wind --

\-- until they reappear, and they’re somewhere else -- they’re high up in the sky, a mile off the ground and falling, and Erik’s heart immediately stutters in his chest because he knows what the man intends, and he’s reaching with his power for his sword, his knives, but they’re never going to get here in time. There’s only one way out of this, and that’s to make this teleporter take him with him, back to safety. 

Erik grabs onto the man with both arms, and they’re both falling together, impossibly fast, rain whipping at Erik’s body like a thousand blades, and he throws his power out in all directions, desperate, grasping for anything, _anything_ \--

The universe, it feels, surges around him -- and suddenly their fall is arrested, and they’re just … _floating_ there, buoyed up on solid waves of magnetism. Erik’s heart is racing, still convinced they’re falling, but for once … he can feel everything, the entire world held together on quivering strings, the power that exists between himself and metal a _presence_ in his mind like it had never been before, and humming in the air around them. 

The assassin stares at him, face twisted in obvious shock, and they vanish again, yanked along through that horrible nothingness, only this time when they punch out onto the other side Erik’s ready. He reaches his power up like a dart into the storm and tangles it around a bundle of lightning, and it’s more than the seed lightning he’d been able to harness before -- it sparks and sizzles through Erik’s senses, and he snaps it down into the assassin’s body with a grimace.

The sound that tears out of the man’s throat is unlike anything Erik’s ever heard. The lightning strikes into his own gut a second later, lancing from the assassin’s body into his own, but … it doesn’t hurt. It just ricochets through him and makes him feel … bright, tense and alive, as if for one moment he’d become a _part_ of the thrum of magnetism that surrounds them.

And then, just as soon as it came, it’s gone, and the both of them are collapsing to the wet ground. The assassin’s body lands on top of Erik and he groans, surging up to force him to roll off to the side, and then -- Erik stares up at the dark sky, gasping for breath, rainwater pouring into his open mouth. The laceration at his neck is throbbing, the pain almost agonizingly unbearable now that he doesn’t have the fight to distract him from it. 

Speaking of the fight. It takes an effort of will, but Erik forces himself up onto his knees and crawls through the churned-up mud to where the assassin lies a scant foot away, pressing two fingers to his neck. He can still feel a pulse. Just unconscious, then. Erik reaches out a hand and one of his knives snaps into his grasp. 

“Wake up,” he demands, and stabs the blade into the assassin’s shoulder.

It works. The man cries out, and his eyes fly open. Erik latches himself onto the metal in the blade just in time, and he’s pulled along with him when the man teleports. They tumble through darkness, Erik gritting his teeth against the sudden surge of nausea that rises up from his gut. When they emerge it’s not raining anymore -- they’re far away, fallen into the lush meadows of the South, and the assassin is groaning in the dirt beneath him, Erik’s knife still sticking out of his shoulder. It had been a risky guess, but Erik was right; life threatened, the teleporter’s Gift had taken him home.

“Thanks for the ride,” Erik says, and he yanks the knife out of the teleporter’s flesh and slices it across his throat. 

Blood sprays up into his face, hot and ferrous, and Erik bares his teeth in a grin as he cleaves the knife in deeper, feeling the cartilage above the throat give way and then the windpipe, cutting across the man’s neck like carving up a piece of meat. Air burbles up in the man’s split throat, frothing pink when it mixes with blood -- the body beneath Erik convulses once, twice, and then is still.

Erik sits there for a moment, straddling this dead man’s hips, his blood dripping down off the tip of Erik’s nose onto his mouth, tasting like copper on his tongue. Finally, finally, Erik lifts a hand and drags it across his face, trying to get the blood out of his eyes. It doesn’t do much good. 

He gets up, even though his legs are quivering, bloody hand gripped tight around the hilt of his sole remaining knife, and makes himself start to walk across the valley toward that city on the hill. The Capital.

~*~


	15. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see notes at end of chapter for content warnings.

_Charles_

“In the absence of your own alpha, it is of course my duty as your Sovereign to take care of you and to help you through your heat myself.”

Charles stands almost paralysed in front of the entire court, staring at Shaw with eyes wide and lips parted, stunned into silence; Raven is stood right behind him, her hand on his arm, but she says nothing, either, caught in just the same way by Shaw’s predator’s eyes. Her fingers dig into his flesh, their grip bruisingly tight.

Charles says, almost stammers out, “That won’t be necessary, your Majesty.” Every part of him is cringing away, disgusted and horrified at the image of Shaw touching him in any way, let alone in ways that only Erik should; he feels sick, flushed and overheated, knowing that everyone is staring, can see that he’s in heat from the sweat on his skin and the rosy tint beneath it, can smell him, his body ready for an alpha.

_Oh, Gods._

The worst part of it is -- the worst part is hearing everyone else thinking that Shaw is doing the right thing, however distasteful; omegas need to be fucked by an alpha during their heat, after all (lie, Charles thinks, _lie_ , it’s uncomfortable but entirely manageable) and, after all, Shaw is the King. He has _droit de seigneur_ , the right to fuck any omega he pleases, whether or not they’re in untimely heat. Charles wants to scream at them all to _stop_ this, but none of them would listen if he did.

“Nonsense,” Shaw says, almost as if addressing Charles’ thoughts, and he walks forward to take Charles’ arm -- ignoring Charles’ flinch, fingers squeezing tightly around his elbow -- then turns him around and forces him to walk alongside him, towards the corridor and past all of the guests, for all the world looking as though Charles is complying of his own free will. “Lady Raven, if you follow I will be _most displeased_. Victor, see to it that she does not. Her brother does not require an audience.”

“You can’t do this!” Raven says at last, finding her voice, and she tries to follow anyway only to be grabbed by one of Shaw’s men and held back, to rumbles of disapproval from the court; she struggles, elbowing one of them in the gut, only to be forced back again, the looks on the men’s faces frighteningly unimpressed.

 _Raven, don’t do anything stupid._ Charles is almost hyperventilating as Shaw drags him out into the corridor and turns left, towards the rooms Charles was assigned, but his mind’s voice is steady. _I’ll be all right. I’ll try and get away but you have to stay_ safe.

Lie. Lie, lie, lie. He’s nauseated, roiling inside, and Shaw’s hand on his arm feels like a claw, like talons closing tight around him.

When they reach the corridor there are guards out there, too -- Shaw has been planning this, Charles can see it in his thoughts and the self-satisfied smirk on his face.  
“Behave yourself, my boy, and this won’t be unpleasant.” 

Charles stumbles over a loose flagstone, but Shaw drags him on, relentless; Charles considers lashing out with his mind -- erase Shaw, wipe his thoughts and clean him out of his brain until there’s nothing left, as fresh and harmless as a newborn. And yet. And yet.

If he does that, there’s no guarantee that he’ll get out alive with Lorna and Raven and Logan all still alive and well, too. He’s strong, but he’s never had the chance to use his powers that way even when at his best -- he’s always had to keep them cramped up and hidden, and now that he’s swimmy-headed and burning up, staggering with his fever, he’s not sure he could even manage to touch Shaw’s mind purposefully. He can’t even hear Raven any more, and he knows her better than almost anyone.

“Let’s not pretend this is you helping me,” Charles says, forcing himself to focus on staying upright at least, the hot clench of Shaw’s fingers on his elbow. “We both know this is about Erik. But this won’t get you whatever it is you want from him. Don’t do this.”

He tries and fails to do anything to Shaw’s mind, and when he tries to break away, jerking his arm hard, Shaw merely tightens his grip enough to bruise, fingers digging divots into Charles’ flesh.

“Clever boy,” Shaw drawls, turning the corner into the wing of the palace Charles’ suite is in. “And yet, stupid. I have a duty of care to my subjects, including you, and you, child, are hurting. It would be remiss of me not to quench your fever if I can.” He looks at Charles sidelong, eyes glittering under hooded lids. “I know you were taught the order of things; alphas protect the people, betas work for the people, and omegas -- well. Omegas lie on their backs and _produce_ the people.”

Charles digs his heels in outside his suite, and though Shaw’s grip is hurting him he refuses to walk forward, finally letting his mask slip so that Shaw can see his eyes blazing with anger and rebellion. The fear, he hides. “Don’t patronise me by keeping playing this game,” he snaps, and it’s terribly rude to address a king this way, could in fact be grounds for imprisonment at the very least if not death, but right now he’s on fire from the inside out and he can’t make himself stop talking. “You’re going to rape me so you can rub it in Erik’s face, and prove to everyone that you can do whatever you want to any of them or their families, using me as an example. This has nothing to do with my heat.”

Shaw laughs, and when he jerks his grip on Charles’ arm Charles stumbles against him, into the warm and waiting embrace of Shaw’s body, and is pinned there by one strong arm as Shaw opens the door to Charles’ rooms and swings it wide. “I can see why Erik has taken to you,” he says, and drags Charles inside, forceful and effortless, then calls out to the few servants in the room, “All of you out, now. Except for you with the child.”

The nanny looks just as terrified as Charles feels, freezing where she’s stood like a rabbit seen by a hawk, and Charles cries, “Leave Lorna out of this!” struggling against Shaw’s grip; Shaw lets him go, sharply enough that Charles almost falls. “She’s just a child!”

“She’s hostage to your good behaviour,” Shaw says, tone genial, and flicks his fingers at the nanny, who blanches and sits back down at the table, dandling Lorna nervously on her knee.

“If this is all about Erik, then he -- he just has to _think_ that you fucked me,” Charles says, placing himself firmly between Shaw and his baby, because there is nothing that will make him let Shaw any closer to Lorna. He’s lightheaded and almost nauseous, vision swimming, but he can at least do that. “You don’t have to actually do it. I’ll write to Erik and you can see the letter before I send it.”

“I’d rather just fuck you,” Shaw says, and grabs Charles’ arm again before he can jerk away, pulling him forcefully towards the bedroom, only continuing once they’re out of earshot of the nanny. “You clearly aren’t clever enough to see the whole picture, my dear.” His voice is a dry and bloodless thing, like the shed skin of a snake. “With Erik dead, your child will be the heir to the North, and if that child is my child, then, well. So much the better. And, to be frank, writing a letter will not put a baby in your belly.”

Erik -- Erik _dead_ \-- no --

Charles’ mind goes blank with horror and denial, everything inside of him freezing at the same time as it burns to ashes, and he starts to struggle in earnest, battering at Shaw’s side and shoulder with his free fist, even though he knows it’s useless; he claws with his mind, too, but can’t even feel Shaw’s thoughts now, like trying to grasp hold of the air. No. No. When Azazel left Erik was still alive, he can’t have -- Shaw can’t know, Azazel hasn’t come back, but where did he go, where did he --

Shaw throws Charles across the room, tossing him onto the bed like he weighs no more than a feather, and Charles scrambles to his feet on the mattress and stands tall above Shaw, snarling at him, refusing to just lay down and take it --

“Your Majesty.”

It’s like being hit with a bucket of cold water. Charles’ head snaps around to stare, and it is -- it’s _Erik_ stood in the doorway, bloodstained and exhausted but _alive_ , and Charles pays no attention to Shaw now at all, just lets out a shuddering breath, so relieved he could almost fall down right here if it weren’t for the hot flush tingling out from his belly at the sight of Erik -- of his alpha. His body starts screaming for what it wants and washes away everything else, the fear and adrenaline of Shaw’s intended assault almost obliterated by the onrush of heat. “Erik!”

Erik’s staring at Charles like he doesn’t really see him, or doesn’t really believe that he’s there. It’s several long seconds before Erik manages to drag his gaze away and look to Shaw, bending into a bow that is only-just deep enough to be respectful. “Your Majesty,” Erik says again. “I received your letter that Charles and my daughter were coming to court.” When he straightens he takes a step closer to Charles, though his eyes don’t waver from Shaw.

Shaw has turned his back to Charles, standing between him and Erik, but Charles can hear his thoughts now and they are _furious,_ thwarted and murderous in their savagery. “Erik,” Shaw says, his voice so genial that it could freeze boiling water. “What are you doing here when I ordered you explicitly to stay at the front?”

A pause. “The Northern men are under the oversight of Captain Drake, whom I trust implicitly,” Erik says, his body tense, all tight lines of readied muscle. “I came back personally to tell you that the Svarti have developed a new and terrifying weapon, which we see only one way to combat. Your Majesty, your Gift is needed at the front.”

“You trust this Drake implicitly, and yet could not send him to carry the message?” Shaw asks; this is going nowhere good, Charles thinks through the haze overtaking his thoughts, and so he makes a decision.

“Erik, I’m going into heat,” he interrupts, playing up his tone so that he sounds more panicked than scared, the way a weak omega is supposed to sound, shifting from foot to foot up on the mattress, the give of the down underfoot making him feel a little like he’s out at sea, being battered by waves; it’s not hard to pretend, not when moments ago he thought he was about to be raped by the King.

And, thank the Gods, Erik catches on; his face visibly softens when he looks at Charles and says, “It will be all right, darling. I’m here, now.” He moves toward Charles, away from Shaw, but when he’s close and with his back to the King, Charles can see the fear in his gaze, revealed only to Charles -- Erik knows just how close they are to disaster. “Thank you, your Majesty, for being willing to take care of my omega,” he says, without turning. “It is gracious of you, to be moved to relieve my omega’s pain.”

The look Shaw gives _Charles_ , then says as clear as day that Charles should keep his mouth _shut_. Now they’re all in a tight corner, because Charles knows exactly what Shaw meant to do, and Shaw cannot move against Erik now that he’s here where the other nobles of the country can and no doubt do know that he is here and alive, and would revolt if Shaw just killed him without some elaborately planned reason.

But, “I will leave you to it,” is all Shaw says aloud, with a small, withered smile for Erik. “I expect a full report the moment that you have time to give it.” He leaves the room swiftly, then, thwarted and furious, and as soon as he’s gone Charles sinks to his knees on the bed, a feverish shiver running through him, and he reaches out a hand towards Erik, palm upward and shaking a little.

Erik kneels one knee on the bed and takes Charles’ hand, pulling him close until Charles falls in against his chest, Erik’s arm wrapped tight around him, holding him a little too roughly. He reeks overpoweringly of blood, and sweat, but beneath that there’s the sharp scent of alpha pheromones as well, pumped out in an instinctive reaction to Charles’ heat. “What happened?” Erik says, digging his fingers into Charles’ back and pressing Charles’ face against his shoulder. “It’s been six months. You shouldn’t -- there shouldn’t be heat for another year, at least.” Erik’s breath catches, and then: “He did this to you.”

“Something …” Charles breathes in, shudders and lets out a low moan of arousal, his cock stiffening rapidly between his legs; he can feel himself getting slick inside, his hole wet against his underwear. “Something in my drink, at dinner. I.” It’s hard to think now, so close to Erik, enveloped in his scent. His body knows who the right alpha is, and while any alpha would do if they managed to get him on his back, Charles is attuned to Erik’s scent, feeling almost maddened by it. He inhales again, deep and greedy, and pushes himself to Erik’s chest, rubbing up against him. “Mmm. Oh. _Gods._ I’m burning up.”

Erik’s hand twists a fist in the fabric of Charles’ shirt, but then he grabs Charles’ shoulders and makes him lean back. “Let me wash, first,” he says. Charles makes a displeased sound in his throat, made unhappy by the sudden distance; it’s then that he notices Erik’s hands and tunic are all stained with blood, a lot of blood, mostly dried but certainly too much to all be his own.

“Whose is it?” Charles asks, trying to focus, but it’s hard, so hard when all he wants is for Erik to fuck him. With Shaw gone it’s all he can think about. “The … ahh, the blood, I mean.”

“Shaw sent an assassin to try to kill me.” Erik gets off the bed and heads for the washroom, tracking a muddy path across the marble. “A teleporter; I didn’t recognize him. He’s been after me ever since I arrived at the front.” A splash of water, and the click of copper on tile. “He won’t be trying again.”

Charles lays back on the covers, and he stares up at the canopy overhead, making every effort not to get up and follow Erik into the washroom; after a moment he reaches for his shirt fastenings and starts working them loose, fingers trembling a little with the hormonal rush and making him fumble. “Lord Azazel. He left before dessert -- he, mm. He put the drug in my drink.”

“Azazel -- isn’t that the name of Shaw’s swordmaster?” Another sound of water on skin, and then Erik’s coming back into the room, hair wet and plastered against his head, but at least most of the blood is gone. His eyes are already on Charles again, following the movement of his hands at his shirt. Charles shivers.

“Talk later, fuck me now,” he says, finally getting his shirt open, and he tears it off himself and spreads his still-dressed legs, reaching out towards Erik.

Erik is on the bed a second later, his mouth pressing hard against Charles’, muffling the growl that rumbles in Erik’s throat. Charles moans and immediately kisses back, biting, hungry and desperate; Erik has a hand down between Charles’ legs already, thumb flipping open the button at his fly to push his hand down Charles’ trousers, bypassing his cock to slide a long finger between Charles’ slickened cheeks.

“Aaaah!” Erik’s wrist is dragging down over his cock and balls, but the sensation is almost negligible beside the feeling of Erik’s finger stroking his rippling hole, smearing his slick around and teasing his entrance, trapped within the tight confines of the fabric. “Please!” His own hands tear at Erik’s shirt, struggling with the fastenings and straps but incapable of actually untying them. 

Charles makes a frustrated sound, squirming under Erik’s weight, and Erik laughs a little breathlessly, reaching up to unfasten them one-handedly and let Charles finally push Erik’s shirt off over his shoulders. Erik floats the knife that was magnetised to his arm away once it’s bared, and Charles strokes down over the expanse of skin now available to him, sighing even as a fresh wave of heat breaks over his head and sucks him down with it.

“Lorna,” he says after a moment, the thought disturbing his focus on getting Erik’s pants off, on the finger still stroking his hole, tapping against him. “Where’s Lorna?”

“With the nurse,” Erik says. He pulls his hand back to hook both thumbs under Charles’ trousers and tug them down, off. “I told her to leave when the King did and take Lorna to Raven. She wouldn’t go earlier without Shaw’s permission.” He makes a blunt, exasperated sound and leans in to kiss Charles’ bare stomach, hands smoothing up the backs of his thighs.

 _Good,_ Charles thinks. He barely notices that he’s found Erik’s mind now, too busy writhing under Erik’s hands and mouth, his own fingers clutching at Erik’s hair -- wet and slippery around his knuckles when he tugs on it, a pleading sound escaping his throat. _Please, something in me, I need it --_

Charles hears Erik’s breath catch at that, and he loses the press of Erik’s hands on his legs as Erik reaches to undo the fastenings of his trousers and push them down, off, kicked onto the floor. Then those hands are back on Charles’ legs, pushing them up and over Erik’s shoulders and lifting his ass from the bed so Erik can muscle in between his thighs and line up his cock at Charles’ wet hole, barely pausing before he simply shoves forward, his thick, hard length sliding in in one hard thrust.

Charles cries out, the sound almost a mewl as he’s filled, stretching around Erik’s cock and clenching down hard around him, reflexive and incredible; the shooting pleasure that runs up his spine is better than anything he’s ever felt, in bed or out, and he pulls hard on Erik’s hair, gasping for breath. Gods. Fuck. He’s so full. “Please!”

Erik pushes forward, bending Charles nearly in half to start fucking his cock into Charles’ hole, rough, desperate shoves of his hips against Charles’ ass, his gaze a little glassy staring down into Charles’, one hand tangling up in Charles’ hair.

It’s like being stroked all over, the friction of Erik rubbing in and out of his body, and Charles cries out on each thrust, tight channel working around Erik inside of him, his own cock laying neglected and hard against his heaving belly and dribbling into his navel; he pulls on Erik’s hair again, and curls upwards to kiss him, biting at Erik’s lower lip viciously enough to draw blood. _Fuck me, fuck me, come on --_

And Erik does, hard, fast, working his cock in and out of Charles like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, groaning and gasping against Charles’ mouth; with Charles’ heat pulsing pheromones out into the room it doesn’t take long at all for Erik to knot him, the base of his cock swelling in Charles’ hole and locking them together as Erik comes, over and over, filling Charles up with his seed right as Charles’ orgasm hits, pulsing and overwhelming. His entire body clenches, squeezing and milking Erik’s knot inside him, and Charles bites Erik again, hard, doesn’t let go, tasting copper on his tongue as they convulse together.

Normally the knot is calming, but this time it takes almost a minute for the relaxing hormone to hit Charles, and when it does it hits hard; he subsides in one long sigh, every muscle in his body loosening at once except for his ass, which holds onto Erik in a death grip, keeping him where he is while the rest of Charles reclines against the pillows. A great sense of wellbeing and satiation is flooding through him, and Charles drapes his arms around his head, his feet still dangling in the air over Erik’s shoulders, bent in half but utterly comfortable. “Mmmmm.”

Erik’s shaking a little as he nudges Charles’ legs off his shoulders, settling between Charles’ legs with a soft kiss pressed to Charles’ sternum. “Do you want me to …?” he asks, hand pressing between their bodies to rub against Charles’ cock, still hard.

“Oh,” Charles says, dreamily, looking down at his erection in surprise; usually when he orgasms both his hole and his cock go at once, but maybe it’s different in a heat when you have a partner. “Mmm. Please.”

Erik jerks him off quickly, licking at one of Charles’ nipples and rocking his knot just a little deeper into Charles’ hole until a second wave of pleasure surges through him and his cock throbs in Erik’s hand, pulsing come out over his own stomach; Charles clenches down harder around Erik inside of him and moans, long and low, head tipping back against the pillows and eyes creasing shut in utter bliss. He didn’t know his body could feel this good, but now that it does he wants to feel like this _all_ the time. Gods.

They lie like that for a little while, tangled up together as Erik’s knot goes down, both of them breathless and wrung out. Erik strokes a hand through his hair and kisses the corner of his mouth when he finally pulls out, rolling off to the side but keeping Charles close, an arm thrown out around Charles’ waist.

“I think we have a little while until I need it again,” Charles murmurs against Erik’s shoulder, tangling one leg between Erik’s, wanting as much skin contact as possible; he rubs his knuckles up and down the line of Erik’s sternum, listens to his heartbeat slowing underneath his ear. Charles can still feel the heat like a tingle under his skin, but it’s a banked fire for now, not the same conflagration it was before he came. “We need to talk about what’s been happening since we last saw each other in Ironhold.”

Erik nods, pressing his mouth to the crown of Charles’ head. “And what is that?”

“Well, the nice part is that Lorna is much bigger now, more interactive,” Charles says. “She’s well. The not so nice part was getting a letter from Shaw, telling me to bring her South so he can bless her as your heir, the implication being that otherwise he would bar her from inheriting.”

“He brought the two of you here to keep me in line,” Erik says, and his hand keeps moving on Charles’ hip, rubbing slow circles against his skin. “But only after he tried to have me assassinated before I even reached camp. And then, when I should surely have been well within his control, threatened by your presence at court, he sends this Azazel to kill me anyway. It doesn’t make sense.”

Charles’ lips purse, and he shakes his head, unease starting to prickle inside of him again. “It does, I’m afraid. He told me he wanted to -- well, to kill you, impregnate me, and have his child take over the throne in the North through my claim. He was going for a dynastic takeover. That’s why he gave me something to induce this heat.” Charles shudders, feeling nauseated at the thought of it, of Shaw’s skin touching him like this, the way Erik’s is now. “Thank all the Gods you got here when you did.”

Erik’s arm tightens slightly around Charles’ waist. “Then we’re out of time. The war starts now, and we can’t quietly wait for Shaw to make the first move.”

“I agree,” Charles says, reluctantly though it is; there’s nothing else to do when Shaw already knows they’re moving against him, is willing to take such drastic measures. “We’ll need to ride out this heat -- maybe another two days, if past experience serves -- and then get out of here as soon as can be arranged. Raven and Logan can look after Lorna; I’d suggest they took her away tonight if it wouldn’t mean tipping Shaw off and leaving us here more or less undefended. I brought some other Northern soldiers with us, but nobody who could stand up to Shaw if he’s truly determined.”

“Can you get messages to your friends here at court? Find out if they can get you out of the Capital. Shaw will expect me to return to the front, but he won’t give you and Lorna up if you’re now the only measure of control he has over me.”

Charles nods, looking up at Erik, and that’s when he notices -- remembers -- the wound on Erik’s neck; it barely registered before, he was so out of it with the heat fever, but now that he looks he can see it’s a long, clean gash, not terribly deep but already swollen at the edges and dangerously close to Erik’s jugular. “Gods, I need to clean that and stitch it up,” Charles says, pushing himself up to sitting and touching one finger to Erik’s wound. “Before I go under again. Stay here.”

He gets out of the bed -- damn, but he can feel the aftermath of their wild fuck in his ass, the muscle twitching and stretched -- and goes to one of his travel bags where he keeps a small purse of healing supplies. There’s a sharp set of needles in there, and some catgut for stitching, and he goes to the bathroom to fetch a clean wet cloth as well, bringing both back to the bed with him and sitting cross-legged on the covers. He ignores the slow seep of slick and come from his ass as he threads the needle. “Stay lying down, and tip your head so your neck is taut.”

“I’m not an embroidery pillow, you know,” Erik says, but he goes, anyway, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, hands folded loosely across his stomach.

“And I don’t do embroidery, but you don’t see me complaining.” Charles ties a knot in the end of the catgut and leans over Erik with the cloth. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”

Erik stays still as ordered, as much as possible, but Charles can’t blame him for flinching when Charles has to scrub a bit to get some of the dirt out of the wound, which bleeds again when he disturbs the half-formed scab; it needs cleaning, though, and although it’s nasty work he’s relieved, almost, when he can take the needle to the gash, slowly dragging Erik’s skin back where it’s supposed to be, stitch by stitch.

When he’s done Erik sits up, touching his fingertips gingerly to the neat line of thirty stitches Charles had put in, frowning a little. “You’re better at this than Logan is,” he says at last, lowering his hand and meeting Charles’ eye. “I want to see Lorna.”

That, at least, is something they can have now without having to worry about it giving them away. Charles checks his internal temperature, finds his heat is still simmering, closer to the surface than it was before but sated, still, for the time being. “I’ll reach out to Raven,” he says, and stretches his mind out, searching the palace for her familiar thoughts.

Raven is in one of the smaller sitting rooms, Lorna perched on her lap as Raven watches the door, hand on the hilt of her sword; when she feels Charles’ mind she immediately thinks, _Are you okay? Is Erik okay? What happened?_ and Charles has to wash calm over her to keep from panicking himself, it’s so strong.

 _We’re fine, I’m in heat, Shaw drugged me,_ he says, transferring over a brief summary of events but leaving out the details of his and Erik’s reunion. _Erik wants to see Lorna; can you bring her to the suite?_

 _You’d better not be fucking when I get there_.

“She’s coming,” Charles says, turning his attention back to Erik; it’s then he realises that they’re both naked and on top of the covers, stinking of sex. “We’d better cover up,” he says, half amused, half mortified.

They settle for sitting at the head of the bed with the sheets drawn up over their waists for modesty’s sake, as Erik brought no clothes except his now-bloodied fighting uniform and Charles is too feverish to stand being dressed; when Raven comes in she takes one look at them and rolls her eyes, concern still present in her mind but for the moment displaced by her exasperation. “Some things I don’t need to witness,” she says, but Charles’ eyes are all for Lorna, who is squirming in Raven’s arms, having spotted Charles.

“Come here, baby,” he says, reaching out, and Raven brings Lorna to him, coming around his side of the bed to lay Lorna in his arms.

“She’s so big,” Erik murmurs, his instincts about having another alpha in the room with his heated omega apparently easily ignored when he has his own child there to take up his attention, grabbing at his forefinger with both little hands when he holds it out toward her; he smiles, the grin splitting across his face and showing far too many teeth. “Halló,” he says to the baby. “Halló, litla.”

Lorna looks at Erik for a long few seconds, considering; then she smiles back, her grin the very image of Erik’s, and says, “Baaaah,” before sticking his finger in her mouth and gumming it enthusiastically.

Charles knows, can see in her mind, that she has no idea who Erik is; the last time she saw him she was so small, and forgot that things existed if she couldn’t see them, so there was no possibility of her remembering Erik after so long. But she’s so generally friendly a baby that it doesn’t seem to matter, and certainly it doesn’t to Erik, who is happily letting her gnaw on his finger, his other hand gently stroking over her green hair. 

“She looks like you,” Erik says, glancing up at Charles, who had personally always thought Lorna looked strikingly like Erik.

“It feels like she’s different every day,” Charles replies as Raven slips out of the room quietly, heading down the hall into the main sitting room, since she’ll have to take Lorna again when Charles’ heat roars up; Charles reaches over to run his finger down Lorna’s soft cheek, mesmerised as always by her miniature perfection. “She recognises people now, and things. She’ll probably be crawling soon.”

“She’ll be a menace in Ironhold,” Erik says, and he takes Lorna from Charles’ arms to settle her on his own lap, letting her sit up facing them, her little feet pressed up against Erik’s stomach. “Won’t you, litla?” Lorna just laughs and slaps her hands down against her legs.

Charles just smiles, leaning in against Erik’s shoulder and sighing, wishing he could just forget about everything else, and just have this -- this, Erik and Lorna both here together within reach of his arms, laughing, happy. It feels like an impossible dream, something almost too much to wish for, and yet here they are, Lorna pushing her toes into Erik’s belly and straining her leg muscles, working them in preparation for learning to crawl. Maybe, if Charles concentrates hard enough on forgetting Shaw, the war, Raven waiting to take Lorna back, his own rising heat, then all of those things will cease to exist and he can just stay here in this moment forever, Erik warm beside him and Lorna giggling and wriggling around, delighted with her newly rediscovered father.

~*~

_Erik_

He wakes early, instinct snapping his mind instantly to alertness, a habit developed at home but solidified on the battlefield. Even so, it takes him a second to realise where he is -- that the bedding beneath him is a luxe mattress and not a flat bedroll, the sounds in the hall those of Southern nobles, not Northern troops. He’s curled up against the warm softness of Charles’ body, one of Charles’ arms slung low over his stomach, Charles’ lips parted and letting a bit of drool puddle on Erik’s shoulder. 

He can smell the pheromones of Charles’ heat still throbbing out into the ambient air; it’s only been a day, but they’ve barely left the bed for any of it, only separating to feed Lorna and for Erik to have a servant take his fighting uniform down to be cleaned. It still feels like a dream, hazy and surreal, lying here in the Southern heat with Charles beside him. The South itself he loathes, the heat not least of all, but with Charles … he thinks some of the Southern exports, perhaps, aren’t so bad. 

Outside in the courtyard, he can hear the sound of sparring; from the laughter and shouts he expects it’s some of Shaw’s young alphas, practicing before breakfast. Thinking of Shaw instantly sends ice plummeting to Erik’s stomach, leeching away some of the warmth of just a moment before. That Shaw had been here, in this room, had his hands on Charles…. 

Erik reaches to tuck a stray curl behind Charles’ ear and kisses his forehead, the skin still dry and fever-hot beneath his lips. Charles stirs almost immediately; arching in Erik’s arms and curling his fingers against Erik’s skin, his eyes slitting open to look up at him. “Mmm,” Charles hums, and leans up to kiss Erik on the mouth before he’s even opened his eyes all the way, rolling onto his back and tugging Erik over on top of him, between his thighs.

“Morning,” Erik murmurs, smiling against his lips and sliding one hand round the back of Charles’ neck. “Your breath smells terrible, you know.”

“That’s flattering,” Charles says after a moment, more awareness creeping into his eyes, heat haze receding a little. He’s already hardening against Erik’s stomach, reflexive and heat-driven, but he barely seems to notice. His face is flushed. “Well. Either I can get up and brush my teeth, or I can roll over on my belly and you won’t have to smell it. Your choice.”

Erik grins sharply and kisses him again anyway, a little harder this time, one of his hands sliding down toward Charles’ thigh; maybe it’s not wise, letting himself get so heat-intoxicated in the South, surrounded by enemies, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to mind. “You think I’m letting you out of this bed so easily, do you?”

“I hope not,” Charles says. He bites Erik’s lower lip, sharp and fast, before shifting in Erik’s hold, forcing Erik to let go and sit back to give him room; Charles rolls over onto his front as soon as he has space to and folds in front of him on the bed, tucking his knees under him, raising his ass and turning his head to face Erik. It’s the classic lordosis position, and Erik can smell Charles’ arousal, his body ramping up again in preparation for another round. “Gods. I feel like I want to be like this -- just, _presenting_ myself -- all the time right now,” Charles says, a shudder running through his body and another cloud of pheromones rolling off his skin. “I never felt it this badly when I went through heat on my own.”

“I can’t say I’d mind if you were like this all the time,” Erik murmurs, squeezing Charles’ ass cheeks in both hands, a little dizzy with the compulsion of Charles’ heat. He presses in with his thumbs, watching Charles’ pale flesh dimple beneath them. His cock is fully hard already, somehow, and Charles’ ass is slick and open, more naturally prepared to be fucked during heat than it ever is outside of it. Erik feels a bit feverish himself, leaning in and spreading Charles’ cheeks to flick his tongue against Charles’ hole, tasting the oddly sweet flavour of his slick and not able to restrain the shuddering sound that rumbles out from his chest at the scent of him, so heady and concentrated, here.

“Nnnnng.” Charles squirms in Erik’s hands, arching his ass back against Erik’s face. His cock is hanging hard between his legs, swollen and twitching, but in heat Charles barely seems to notice it, and he doesn’t ejaculate any more, not after the first couple of times the day before. All of his wetness, all of his pleasure, is focused in his hole. “ _Fuck._ Do it again.”

Erik complies without argument, tracing the tip of his tongue around Charles’ hole, teasing little sounds of pleasure from Charles, loving the way Charles practically falls apart beneath his touch. But the heat is like an undeniable imperative, and as much as Erik wants to stay like this, to bring Charles apart with just his mouth and tongue, his cock is starting to throb almost painfully, arousal pulsing up through his stomach and making it impossible to restrain himself any longer.

He licks one final, wet stripe over Charles’ hole and grasps onto his hips, pulling him back to slide inside of him and start fucking his hard cock into Charles’ ass, Charles’ body hot and clenching tight around him, trying to pull him in deeper. He groans, nails digging hard into Charles’ skin; Charles _growls_ , a rumbling sound, and shoves back against him, hard, in time with Erik’s thrusts. Erik grabs onto Charles’ thighs and Charles is gasping, breathless, a fierce expression on his face when he looks back at Erik over his shoulder. “Come on, come on -- ”

Erik fucks him harder, heart pounding, using his grip to slam their bodies together, the slap of skin against skin loud enough to drown out the sounds of sparring outside. “Fuck,” Erik gasps, Charles’ hole rippling around his cock and making him feel flushed all over, reduced to nothing more than desire and his base, animalistic urges.

Charles’ eyes screw shut and his mouth opens on a loud moan; he comes like that, body clamping down hard around Erik’s dick and pulsing out a wave of fresh slick as Charles shudders and shakes, his whole body flushed rosy pink with his orgasm. Erik tightens his grasp on Charles’ legs, mind temporarily wiped blank with the ecstasy of Charles’ climax, which Charles’ mind is accidentally projecting, just enough for Erik to catch the sweet edge of it. 

It’s enough to send him over, himself, his cock swelling in Charles’ ass, bulging and knotting there as Erik comes. The sounds Charles makes at that are all vowel sounds, body arching again as the knot swells inside of him, fingers clawing at the sheets, wild in a way that makes Erik groan; Charles is half-collapsed on the bed, held up mostly by the angle of his knees and Erik’s body behind him, his torso all languid and his ass clenching and working around Erik’s cock. “Mmmm.”

It’s starting to take longer and longer for Erik’s knot to go down, since the heat began; he shifts them onto their sides, curled up together while they wait, Erik’s mind and body still feeling drugged and strung-out with the recurring pulses of his orgasm. He keeps one hand on Charles’ stomach, idly smoothing up and down the flat plane of it. 

“We need to be prepared for the possibility that this could lead to another pregnancy,” he says after a little while, thumb bumping over the dip of Charles’ navel. The thought has occurred to both of them, he’s sure, but they’ve been carefully avoiding the topic during the heat so far. “I don’t like the idea of you being in such a state while we’re at war.” Charles having freshly given birth to Lorna during the Svarti war was one thing, but this, their rebellion against Shaw and the Southern rule, is far more dangerous. “You’ll be a target.”

“I’m already a target,” Charles sighs, reaching behind himself to loop his arm around and place his hand on the back of Erik’s head, petting his hair. “Being pregnant again won’t change that, though I must admit it’s not something I wanted to do again so soon. Blame the King; it was his idea.” Charles’ body is lax, soothed by the knot pressing down on his internal glands, but the look on his face when he turns his head to look at Erik is lucid and resigned. “Honestly, I’m just relieved that it’s you and not him.”

“I do blame him,” Erik says, more harshly than he meant to. He presses his lips together into a thin line, hand going still on Charles’ stomach. “Everything he touches turns to ash.” Shaw destroyed Erik’s people, stole Erik’s childhood. He won’t let him steal his family as well.

“Look at it this way.” Charles brings his other hand to rest over Erik’s on his own stomach, starting up the petting motion again. “Maybe by the time any child we conceive is born, we’ll be done with all of this and we can concentrate on raising it and Lorna. And she’ll have a brother or sister near her age to play with. And I can be done with being the size of a whale for a year or two, which would be very welcome.”

The anger doesn’t dissipate, not really, but it eases slightly, fading under the contentment of having Charles so close again. Erik closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, wishing he didn’t feel quite so edgy in his own skin. “I happen to like you the size of a whale, you know,” he says, kissing the curve of Charles’ ear.

“That’s because you’re not the one who has to waddle around everywhere, forget the sight of your own cock for months at a time and fight the need to piss all the time,” Charles says, not quite as grumpily as Erik would have expected.

“Mmm.” Erik grins and, when his softening cock allows it, pulls free of Charles’ ass to lean forward and steal another kiss from his mouth. “Unfortunately, I do need to attend the King. I have to excuse my disobedience, or else we won’t be leaving this city any time soon. Not alive, anyway.”

“Humph,” Charles settles onto his back and closes his eyes, clearly ready for a nap after the latest round of trying to appease his heat-stricken body. “We still may not leave this city alive. Unless you have a _really_ good excuse lined up for why Azazel is lying dead in a field and you’re here buggering your husband instead of fighting the Svarti.” 

“Shaw knows damn well why Azazel’s dead,” Erik says. He pushes himself up out of bed and heads to the chair where the servants have left his fighting uniform, now cleaned and neatly-folded. The sole remaining knife in his possession snaps to his forearm, magnetised itself there with Erik’s Gift. “As for the rest, well, Shaw won’t know what is and is not a lie until he’s gone to the front himself to find out. And without his teleporter, that will take him a few days.”

“Give me a moment,” Charles says, and he’s silent for a few seconds, then says, “Shaw’s in the throne room holding open court. If you go now you can catch him in front of witnesses, make sure he can’t just kill you and hide the evidence.” Charles opens his eyes and looks at Erik, and there is such fond love and concern on his face that Erik can’t help but love him more than ever, just for that. “Be careful,” Charles says, “and if you could send Lorna in on your way out, I’d be obliged.”

~*~

It’s been years since Erik has stepped into the throne room, and never during open court. The last time he was here, Shaw was giving him a medal for his service in the war against the Utreks, honouring him in front of the entire kingdom. Before that, it was the day his father died and Erik ascended to the title of Duke.

He’s made a point of avoiding Shaw under such formal circumstances; he’s made a point of avoiding Shaw full-stop, but when it does become necessary, he’s found the sickly paternalistic tilt to Shaw’s affection for him plays to his advantage, and _that_ always unfolds best in private. 

Erik’s ill-dressed for court, his fighting uniform too tight-fitted, too black, strapped with unused holsters and harnesses; the single knife hidden beneath his sleeve feels like an insufficient shield against these well-dressed nobles and their gaze. He can feel them staring at him, cold, suspicious eyes that linger, trained on his back as he passes, but Erik decides it’s not noticeably different from how they always look at him: Lehnsherr, Duke North, always this-close to treasonous and effectively Shaw’s army. He could crush them, any of them, if Shaw gave the order. Or, Erik thinks viciously to himself, even if Shaw never does.

At the front of the room Shaw is sat in that monstrosity of a throne, speaking with Nathaniel Essex; when Erik enters however his head comes up like a bloodhound catching a scent. His eyes fix on Erik with a kind of burning loathing Erik has never had directed at him by Shaw before, even as his mouth curves into a parody of greeting. “Erik, how good of you to join us in your husband’s hours of need.”

“Your Majesty,” Erik says, and he stops at the foot of the throne, bowing at the waist. “I came as soon as I was able.” It’s bloody Southern, the way Shaw manages to insult Charles while still seeming so perfectly polite. Erik keeps his expression blank as he straightens from his bow and meets Shaw’s pale gaze.

Shaw waves Erik closer with an idle gesture of his hand, Essex stepping back and away from them, but not before shooting Erik a smirking look; greasy, obsequious man. “Now. Report,” Shaw says once they are alone, and though the smile doesn’t drop he’s not hiding his thwarted fury from Erik. Erik knows Shaw too well for that.

“The Svarti have developed a weapon which is hitherto unknown to us,” Erik says in a lowered tone, trying to convince himself as much as Shaw that he’s telling the truth. “A type of exploding projectile. There is no metal involved, and now that they know we have no defense against it, they’ve begun favouring it in their attacks. Even my Northern troops are nearly decimated.”

Shaw’s smile curls deeper, bitterly amused. “And they brought this out immediately after my departure, which nobody but my aides and yourself were aware of? Convenient.”

Erik pretends not to notice the implicit accusation and continues, “The weapon seems volatile; occasionally it will detonate behind their own lines, killing Svarti men. My current theory is that they hoped not to need to use it; perhaps it’s experimental. In any case, they’ve saved it for what they thought was their last stand. 

“And -- your Majesty, the Svarti must know you do not personally stand with your troops in battle. They would have killed a great many alphas before you were able to control the situation.” He pauses, and then pulls a frown onto his lips, knitting his brow together with faux concern, as if the implication of Shaw’s words has only just hit him. “Sir, do you fear there may be a spy within our inner circle?”

“To quote your dear husband,” Shaw says, his voice dry as bone, “don’t let’s pretend, Erik, that you are not aware of my attempts to remove you from the equation.” He leans forward on the throne, elbows braced on the arms on either side, posture strong and broad. “I know full well that there is a spy amongst us, and I have already made efforts to remedy that situation. That I’ve not yet succeeded is a reflection on my skill at training you as a boy, which I suppose is its own kind of punishment for clasping such an asp to my own breast.”

Well, Erik thinks, trying desperately to ignore the way his heart is suddenly beating just a little faster, nausea shoving up from his gut. Perhaps it was foolish to think Shaw would be any less intelligent than he is; any attempts at clever politicking will be transparent. Erik’s best hope is to play to what Shaw expects … or what he would expect, knowing Erik as well as he does, if Erik were truly innocent. 

It comes naturally, the adolescent frustration that rises hot beneath his breastbone, and Erik lets it go a little wild, lets himself become every bit the rebellious teenager he used to be -- because that’s what Shaw would want to see, isn’t it? The young and brazen alpha Shaw knew loathed him but who was, to Shaw’s eyes, trustworthy. Controllable.

“Fine, so you admit it, then,” he snaps out, feeling his cheeks flush hot. He hasn’t let himself give in to this kind of anger in so long; it frightens him, a little, how quickly it takes over. “It _was_ you. That assassin -- the one with the ceramic arrows. _Your_ man.”

Shaw flicks his fingers, dismissing the anger the way he always did when Erik was younger, as if his frustrated ire were merely a nuisance, a childish thing easily discounted. “I assume he’s dead, given that you’re here and more or less whole? A pity; Azazel was a useful man, very skilled.” 

“ _Of course he’s dead_ ,” Erik hisses, letting his hands clench into fists. “Sir, my loyalty to you has _never_ wavered. What cause do you have for this?” It isn’t hard to look hurt, either. Perhaps it should be. But for all Shaw’s crimes, his sadism, as a child Erik had … well. A child will cling to even a pretense at kindness. Erik pushes away the tide of self-loathing that surges up within him at that; more than enough time to hate his own younger self later, when he isn’t defending his own right to be alive.

The rest of the crowd of nobles are talking amongst themselves, but Erik can tell they’re trying to listen in without appearing to eavesdrop; Shaw’s voice is measured in its volume as a result, but still as calm and smooth as glass. “I suppose all those letters exchanged between yourself and the Svarti Queen were love notes, then?” he asks, raising one eyebrow. “Your couriers are discreet, Erik, but it’s not hard to make some educated guesses once you know where it is they keep vanishing off to.”

Shaw hasn’t managed to read any of them, then. If he had he’d be quoting them, dwelling luxuriously over every word to make Erik squirm on the spit.

“I was trying to negotiate their premature surrender,” Erik says, eyes narrowing sharply. “You know my omega was pregnant, and then I had a newborn. Going off to fight yet another one of your wars was hardly something I was particularly excited for, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. Perhaps it’s a liberty I should not have taken; I could hardly tell you I was doing it. But it isn’t _treason._ ” He takes in a shallow breath and a half-step closer. “Sir. You have known me since I was a child. How can you believe this of me?”

“I can hardly imagine you so enamoured of a Southern omega that you wouldn’t jump at the chance for a war,” Shaw says bluntly, but there’s a hint coming in around the corners of his eyes, something in the shift of his gaze, that says he’s starting to wonder, just a little, if Erik is telling the truth. “Breed him, yes. But wish to stay at home when there’s fighting to be done? Never.” He taps his fingers against the arm of his throne, thoughtful and considering, and picks up his wine goblet, taking a long swallow and watching Erik over the rim.

“I love him,” Erik says. Maybe he’ll regret saying it, but even lies benefit from a kernel of truth. “I love him, and I love my daughter. The fact that you’re my King is the only reason I haven’t killed you for touching him.” He’s breathing harder now, shaking a little with genuine anger, fighting against the way his chest’s gone tight.

Shaw sets down his goblet, examining Erik’s face for a long and silent moment, before finally saying, “Hmm.” And nothing more.

“Let Charles and Lorna return to the North,” Erik says at last, taking the risk only because it’s what his younger self would have done. Something rash and reckless and demanding, especially of his monarch, but Erik doesn’t allow himself to hesitate. “After what you did with Charles’ heat, I don’t want them here. I will fight your war for you. I will pledge my loyalty in any way you want. I am _yours._ ...But I want them gone.”

“Hmm,” Shaw says again, and then flicks his fingers, another dismissal. “The acknowledgement must go ahead; that it’s been delayed by your husband’s … indisposal is unfortunate, but necessary. Afterwards we shall see.” His expression is unreadable now, gone entirely banal and clean of true feeling. Erik chooses to interpret that as a good sign; if Shaw is concealing his thoughts, then there must be _some_ element of doubt at work that keeps him from condemning Erik outright.

Erik lets out a slow, unsteady breath; this time, it’s entirely faked. “When? What I said about the Svarti weapon was not a lie. We need to return to the front.”

“You would know better than I how long it will be before dear Charles is on his feet again.” The _instead of on his back_ goes unspoken, but Erik hears it nonetheless. Is forced, by the same coin, to ignore it.

Erik nods, and then forces himself to bow again, a little deeper this time than before. “Yes, your Majesty.” The briefest of pauses, then Erik makes himself add: “Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t choke yourself, Erik, I know you better than that,” Shaw says, and rolls his eyes, already looking past Erik towards the rest of his courtiers. “Do your duty, and we shall see if I believe you in due time.”

Erik excuses himself, and keeps his back straight as he walks from the court, meeting the gazes of the nobles who stare at him as he passes, all of them looking faintly scandalised that he’d clearly been so insolent to the King even if they didn’t know what he’d said; Erik glares at them. As far as he’s concerned, by virtue of standing in this room, at Shaw’s service, they are all complicit in his crimes. Everything they have, even to the clothes on their backs, was paid for by the gold Shaw stole from Erik’s people. _Soon_ , he tells himself, and it settles the harsh throb in the pit of his stomach.

His relief, that Shaw let him leave with his head still on his shoulders, that Shaw still sees him as enough of a child to trust that he won’t be a threat, Erik chooses not to acknowledge.

~*~

Erik leaves the court and takes a wide path toward the perimeter of the palace, setting an idle pace with his hands lightly clasped behind his back, nodding acknowledgment to passing nobles even as his attention wanders, searching for particularly empty-seeming halls, trying to choose the best route out of the city should it come to it. That Shaw said he may allow Charles and Lorna to return to the North unmolested is no real reassurance; Erik’s not survived as long as he has by making a habit of assuming the best of Shaw’s intentions.

The thing about Hammer Bay, Erik has found, is that leaving Shaw’s line of sight is not the same as escaping his presence. In a way, Erik’s entire life is bound up with the Southern King, Shaw’s influence knotted through him like a thousand black threads, too many and too tangled to cut them loose. If Shaw had merely destroyed Erik’s people, it would have been enough of a reason to hate him. But then he’d woven himself into Erik’s childhood and adolescence so resolutely that Erik had often thought it would be impossible to define himself without doing so in relation to Shaw. Everything he is now was built on a foundation of things Shaw created and destroyed. ‘Who he is’ cannot be disentangled from the things Shaw did _to_ him, and now that it might finally be ending, that he will at last achieve that goal he’s built his entire life around, feels --

Erik doesn’t know how to feel. Not really. There’s pain, and anger, and hate, but Erik let himself be molded by these, sculpted by them. He isn’t sure who he will be, when his life and acts are no longer measured against Shaw’s reflection. When he can’t be just a weapon, seeking to destroy its wielder.

He turns onto a long marble hall, open onto a garden, the colonnades engraved with ivy and flowers. He used to walk this way from his quarters to Shaw’s suite almost every night, when he was young and still fostering here as Shaw’s ward. Standing here now, he can nearly feel that old fear twisting in the pit of his stomach again, hot and tight in the back of his throat, nausea rising on its heels. It’s a beautiful view out onto the elegant rose garden, but as a boy, he never noticed. Walking _to_ Shaw’s rooms, all was coloured with terror and trepidation. Walking back, he was blinded by pain. 

He overheard Shaw speaking with Nathaniel Essex, once. “Children are like dogs,” Shaw said. “Raised properly, they are loyal for life.” A laugh. “Isn’t it strange, Essex? You can torture a dog, strip it of its dignity, beat it until it’s broken and nearly dead. By all rights it should hate you. But no, it clings to you. The harsher your hand, the stronger its love.”

Erik hadn’t thought such stories applied to him, he who had come into Shaw’s care with no delusions, who knew Shaw was a monster from the start. But now he knows it was even more true for him than it was for any other. He hated Shaw, but he craved his approval. He wanted Shaw dead, but still strove to impress him. Shaw’s lesser affections were like precious gifts to be hoarded, and the monstrous acts, in turn, only served to throw Shaw’s small kindnesses into sharper relief.

Shaw had known Erik hated him from the day they met, of course; there was no doubting that. For the most part Erik managed to constrain himself within the bounds of proper behaviour, but his loathing bled through regardless and stained his every interaction with the King despite his best attempts at concealing it. Shaw found his hatred amusing, like an eccentric affectation. Childish. It was that, more than the strength of Erik’s Gift, Erik thinks, which made Shaw focus his attentions on Erik far more than any of the other courtiers’ alpha children. 

Erik cuts down a shorter corridor to a walkway that arched over the garden and brought him down a dark, spiraling stair. He broke his arm falling down this stair, once. He doesn’t remember what crime earned him that punishment, though he’d be willing to bet it was insolence. A broken arm and three bruised ribs. Shaw gave out punishment in measured doses: never more or less than exactly what had been earned. Sometimes he would inform Erik beforehand, what he intended. “Twenty lashes and two broken ribs. A dislocated shoulder for fighting back.” 

It was widely regarded, at court, that Erik was too wild when riding his horse. That was the excuse Erik always gave them, anyway. Shaw, on the other hand, would just tsk and say, with his own brand of honesty: “Reckless.”

Sometimes Erik was certain it must be wholly transparent, the way he walked some mornings. But no one said a word. Perhaps Erik covered for it better than he thought. Or perhaps they knew, perhaps everyone knew, but they kept their remarks to themselves for pity’s sake.

He pauses at the northeast corner of the palace, near the gate, and asks a guard for the time. The man turns his head away to gauge the height of the sun and Erik marks it, how easy it would be to cut his throat like this before he could sound the alarm. It’s three in the afternoon. Erik thanks him and moves on.

He’s starting to wind his way back around to where Charles has his rooms, passing through the open courtyards, when he suddenly senses sharp metal shooting toward his head. His Gift grasps the steel arrowhead just in time, seizing it in midair a foot from his cheek, and his knife is instantly in his hand, Erik spinning around to face what must be another assassin --

But it’s only a boy, a young alpha with oddly-red spectacles, holding his bow in one hand with his face frozen in a mask of horror, his companions unable to meet Erik’s eye.

“Oh Gods sir, I’m sorry,” the boy stammers, then bows and doesn’t rise, keeping his back bent in a deep stoop. “I didn’t see you there!”

For fuck’s sake, Erik thinks -- this one is worse at archery than he himself was at his age. His knife vanishes back up his sleeve and he plucks the arrow from the air, heading toward the boy and his friends, all of whom, Erik notices once he’s close enough to tell, are alphas. 

_Shaw’s boys_ , he thinks grimly, glancing from face to face: all young, all strong and attractive. Likely all Gifted, as well. Shaw’s fondness for the culture and practices of Ancient Hellas certainly hasn’t faded.

“Be more careful in future,” Erik says at last, holding the arrow out with its fletching toward the boy.

“Yes, sir,” the boy says, straightening, then blinks through his lenses when he looks up at Erik. If possible he flushes even darker as he exclaims, “You’re -- Duke Lehnsherr! Gods, I really am sorry, your Grace. Jamie dared me to try and shoot the eye on the carving over there and I -- I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

Erik lifts a brow before he can stop himself. “Jamie dared you, did he?” Of course, it wasn’t as if he himself wouldn’t take any dare Ororo or Logan had cared to give him when he was this boy’s age, he supposes. He bites back a sigh and says, “What’s your name?”

“Scott of House Summers, sir,” the boy says, bowing again, only a little more shallowly this time. 

“Brother of Alex Summers?” Alex is among those Charles had said were loyal to Raven, Erik recalls. He very much doubts Alex knows the extent of what young Scott has gotten himself involved with.

“Yes sir,” Scott says, shifting a little now from foot to foot, though his tone and expression are utterly polite. “He’s my older brother.”

And Scott himself can’t possibly be older than twelve. Erik only just manages to keep his curse behind his teeth. It’s younger than Erik had been. 

Erik looks at him, as if it would somehow be written on his skin, whether or not Shaw had -- 

“You can pay Jamie back later, I suppose,” Erik says. “But however you take your revenge, try not to do it where passing nobility can see you.” 

He gives Scott a small smile and makes himself step away, heading back to the walk. It’s difficult to turn his back on these children, knowing what he knows about Shaw’s predilections, but if Erik has his way Shaw won’t hold sway over them for much longer. At least in his and Charles’ rooms there is one child he knows he can keep out of Shaw’s clutches.

~*~

_Charles_

The heat takes three days to pass, alternating between sleep, Lorna, and long, sweaty bouts of sex with Erik, Charles’ body begging for and demanding it from Erik at the same time, mindless and all-consuming; had they been at home in Ironhold Charles would have given himself over to it entirely, might remember nothing but a blur of pleasure and drowsy relaxation, but as it stands he was all too aware, the entire time, of being trapped in the Southern Palace by the artificial demands forced upon him, and of having made both himself and Erik vulnerable to attack when they ought to be most distracted by each other.

He’s glad when he wakes up on the fourth day to find that the heat has passed, his temperature back to normal and the frantic edge to his desire gone along with the fever. But finishing his heat isn’t just a matter of waiting to see if he’s conceived again. It’s also the signal for the palace to prepare the acknowledgement ceremony for Lorna.

“Are we ready to leave tonight?” Charles asks Erik as they dress, having washed properly for the first time in days; it feels embarrassingly strange to be putting on clothes again after spending three days naked in bed, nothing but linens and hands touching his skin. “I have everything I and Lorna can’t do without packed discreetly, but is there anything we haven’t yet worked out?”

Erik shakes his head. “I’ll need more weapons than one knife, but I can pick those up as we leave. We’re as well-prepared as we can be, given the circumstances.”

It’s less than ideal, but there’s really no other option -- not when Shaw is still less than convinced he should let them live long enough to find out if Erik is truly loyal. Charles smiles tightly and finishes lacing up his shirt, then picks up his waistcoat and tugs that on over the top, shrugging his shoulders to get it to sit correctly before he starts on the buttons. “If it helps,” he says, trying for lighthearted, “Raven and Logan have been teaching me to fight with a knife. So I can protect you from the palace guards when the time comes.”

“What would I do without such a brave and vicious omega?” Erik says, tugging him in close to press a kiss to his lips, hand lingering at the small of Charles’ back. “Here,” he murmurs, taking over the buttons of Charles’ waistcoat for him, doing them up one-handedly. “Very fashionable. Possibly. I’m woefully undereducated in such matters.”

“Very hot, and stuffy in this Southern weather,” Charles says, but he allows Erik to take over dressing him, since there are no finer points to the fastening of a button that need attending to. “But fashionable, last year. I’m a little out of date now.” There’s not much call for court finery in the practical North, after all.

“Well, that won’t matter longer than today,” Erik says, and he tugs at the hem of Charles’ waistcoat, straightening out imaginary wrinkles, before he steps back to scoop up Lorna from her crib. She reaches immediately for his face, splaying a tiny hand against his cheek, and although he smiles as he pushes her arm down the expression is tight.

Charles walks over to curl his hand through the crook of Erik’s elbow like a proper, subservient omega, and squeezes for a moment, looking up at Erik with a knowing, rueful quirk to his mouth. “Right,” he says. “Then let’s get today over with.”

The ceremony takes place in the Godshall, a round and airy structure at the far end of the palace overlooking the sea; the air there smells more strongly of brine and ocean things than anywhere else Charles has been in the palace, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s the influence of the Gods or simply being built out on the headland, surrounded on two sides by waves. It feels as though every noble in the kingdom has turned out to see Lorna acknowledged, all of them crowded into the wooden benches that face the dais at the front of the hall, and all of them watching Charles and Erik taking their baby to Shaw.

Just the thought of bringing Lorna anywhere near the King makes Charles feel sick -- the thought of going near Shaw _himself_ makes him feel sick after what nearly happened the other night, and he has to fight down the urge to grab Lorna from Erik and run in the opposite direction with each and every step he takes forward. But somehow, together, they reach the bottom of those stairs, and stand waiting at the bottom, looking up at Shaw stood at the top, beside the priest.

“Your Majesty, your Graces, my Lords and Ladies,” the priest says, his voice echoing from the high rafters, a deep and booming basso that startles some gulls outside into shrieking calls as they fly away. “We stand here together today to bless one who would follow after her father in guarding part of our homeland, and in pledging allegiance to our King. Do any here object to the inheritance of Lorna of the House of Lehnsherr, daughter of his Grace Erik Duke of the North, and his husband, Charles, formerly of the House of Xavier?”

There is a long and pregnant pause in which Charles cannot take a breath, his eyes fixed on Shaw’s smug face, and for a moment he thinks the King is about to speak -- but Shaw says nothing.

“Bring the child forth.”

Charles walks with Erik up the steps, slow and steady, feeling both Erik’s reluctance and his own crying out against the interest and impatience of the crowd. It’s almost overwhelming, and he concentrates on that instead of on the way Erik shifts, tense and ready to fight, when the priest says, “Pass the child to her liege lord, so he may accept her into her place at his right hand.”

Oh Gods. Charles stiffens and can’t look away, won’t, as Erik shifts again beside him and adjusts his hold on Lorna; she squirms, displeased, and says, “Mmmmnah,” smacking her hand against Erik’s arm, her eyes going to Charles’, little brows drawing together in a scowl. Then she looks to her side and sees Shaw, and immediately she falls silent, her mind’s frustration suddenly switching track to fear. Her breath catches in her little chest. Charles can’t blame her -- she may not be telepathic, but there is something about Shaw that makes the hair stand up on the back of one’s neck, and Lorna is no fool. She knows a predator when she sees one.

“Hand her to me, Erik, I won’t eat her,” Shaw says, genial and buoyed up with his own savage pleasure at the look on Erik’s face as he’s forced to allow Shaw to take Lorna from his arms, settling their baby against his chest and looking down at her for an endless, awful moment, his eyes lizardlike and calculating even as he smiles. It’s all teeth.

 _Please don’t harm her,_ Charles thinks, but he keeps the thought safely inside his own head, imagining his hands clasped together in supplication to a man he refuses to bow to, if only he will give Lorna back safe and well. He can’t help but stare at Shaw’s long fingers supporting her head, curved around the soft green locks of her hair as the priest murmurs over them, saying some prayer or other Charles could care less about -- can’t help but imagine himself held down by those same hands, forced into betraying Erik with his body by the same man who now holds their child’s life in the balance.

 _It’s one of his games,_ Erik thinks, in clear words, obviously directed at Charles. _Yesterday I asked him to let you and Lorna leave the Capital, and he saw that as a weakness he could exploit. But he won’t hurt her._ There’s a thread of doubt laced along the last, but Erik doesn’t voice it.

 _If he tries I’ll kill him before he can move,_ Charles says back, and he didn’t know he had such a pit of black and violent instinct in him before this moment, seeing Shaw holding his terrified child at a time when he could not have more reason to harm her. _I’ll destroy his mind right here in front of everyone and I’ll kill him before he can do more than think it. The rest of them can kill me after if they dare._

There’s a part of Erik that Charles can feel, a strong and deeply-rooted part of him, that wishes, harshly, that Charles would do it. That doesn’t care if they die here, doesn’t even care if the North never breaks free, just so long as Shaw himself is dead. But it’s tempered now with age and experience, restrained, even if Charles knows Erik feels it no less intensely. _I know_ , Erik thinks simply, and his gaze doesn’t waver at all from Shaw, who is bouncing Lorna slightly in his arms.

“Then may it be so in the eyes of Gods and men,” the priest says, flicking holy oil over Shaw and Lorna, who creases her eyes shut, mouth puckering, and Charles has to wait -- has to hold still as Shaw doesn’t hand her back, just look up at both of them and smiles that awful smile, still dandling their baby.

“Many congratulations again, my dear boy,” he says after the moment has drawn out, and out, and out. Finally, mockingly, he hands Lorna back to Erik, who gives her immediately to Charles so that he can clutch her close to his chest and bury his nose in her sweet-smelling hair. Shaw’s chuckle is a dark and satisfied thing, as though he can taste Charles’ fear and relief, and enjoys it.

It’s difficult to proceed out of the Godshall at a steady pace when Charles can see Shaw walking directly in front of them, can hear him thinking; it’s mundane, for the most part, the celebration, where he needs to be, who he should speak to and who to snub and what arrangements must be made. But a part of Shaw is lingering on the memory of holding Lorna, and thinking -- how much easier it would be to shape a child if you had her from infancy. Charles’ breath catches in his chest and he feels anger swell up inside of him, protective and raging, until he knows that given the chance he would kill Shaw, regardless of consequences, if it meant saving Lorna from such a fate.

The blessing of it is that the celebration has been designed as a garden party, without set tables or places, so there is no requirement for Charles and Erik to sit at the top table with the King. Instead the guests may wander from entertainment to entertainment freely, and Charles has never been so relieved as when he is finally able to diverge away from Shaw’s path and escape off into the gardens to find something to appear fascinated by while he waits for his heartbeat to slow. Erik is a warm presence at his side, his hand resting on the small of Charles’ back as they walk, and when Charles looks at him he can see the vigilance on Erik’s face, looking around at the other guests as if assessing them for threats.

 _If we can just stay away from him for the rest of the day,_ Charles says, pretending to be interested in the juggler entertaining a group of children by the rose garden, brightly coloured balls flying through the air in complex patterns, _then maybe we’ll never have to see him again._ Wouldn’t that be wonderful, he thinks to himself, without a trace of sarcasm.

 _We’ll see him again,_ Erik thinks back almost immediately, with a grim sort of fierceness. _It will be when I’m putting my sword through his heart._ But he smiles when he leans over to look at Lorna, tugging at her tiny wrist to make her wave at the juggler.

 _He makes me feel like I need to bathe,_ Charles says, another of those horrible images flashing through his mind -- the memory of Shaw’s grip on his arm, the feeling of being trapped and unable to defend himself for fear of worse repercussions. Erik just tugs him closer and presses his lips to the side of Charles’ head, the kiss lingering too long to pass as casual; Charles can feel some of the tension in his spine unwinding a little at the contact and he leans in toward Erik’s side.

“I know you’ve just finished heat, darling, but really, there are children present,” a familiar voice says from just behind Charles, accompanied by a sensation of probing in his mind. Charles stiffens for a moment before turning to face Emma Frost, who is stood idly gazing at the juggler, a silver goblet clasped loosely in the fingers of one hand and her long white gown blazingly pristine against the greenery of the gardens.

“Lady Frost,” Charles says in a carefully neutral tone, and bows his head respectfully, although he wraps his mind in triple layers of false-thought shielding even than he would normally maintain in the palace knowing she might be here; as the King’s mistress, Emma might be tired of his rule but she is still the very last person Charles wants to pick up a stray thought concerning their imminent departure. Far better to put on a mask of normalcy and let her choke on the banality of it all. She has no idea Charles is a fellow telepath, and he has no intention of allowing that to change any time soon. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Charles,” she says, lips curving into a rosebud smile as she looks at him, then at Erik, to whom she makes a small curtsey. Her mind subsides, clearly having found only Charles’ musings about how long it will be before Lorna needs to have her swaddling changed. “Erik.”

“How was your trip to Suffolk?” Erik asks, returning her gesture with a slight bow. “I’d heard you were traveling in the East.”

Emma lifts her goblet to her mouth and takes a sip, eyes merry with some unspoken amusement; Charles doesn’t dare try to read her. She’d know instantly in such close quarters. “Oh, very pleasant,” she answers, in every tone of sincerity. “Save for the small war being waged close to our borders, of course. That did take a little of the shine off it.”

She sets her goblet down upon the tray of a passing server and looks down at Lorna in Charles’ arms, then steps in closer, leaning over a little to peer at her; Emma’s smile becomes more genuine, and she reaches out with one hand to offer her finger to Lorna, who takes it happily, tugging enthusiastically on her new captive. “She’s beautiful, Charles,” Emma says; it has the ring of truth to it, for once. “Hello, darling. How old are you now?”

“Seven months.” Charles is a little taken aback by Emma’s sudden enthusiasm; she’s never been someone he considered himself close to in any manner, and yet … it’s difficult to remain remote from someone so complimentary about his daughter.

“Well, dear, clearly you married the right alpha, if this is the result.” 

Charles can feel Erik rolling his eyes -- in his head only, thank the Gods -- and he says, “I had no idea you were so fond of children, Emma.”

“Other peoples’ children,” she says, and taps Lorna on her little button nose to make her laugh, a peal of giggles that makes Charles smile, too, despite how tense he’s feeling. “After all, had I my own children I’d have to bear them, wash them, feed them … quite aside from having to manage the King’s great love of children to make sure they weren’t too spoiled.”

Charles smiles thinly, but there’s a moment where Emma meets his eyes that they connect, not telepathically but intuitively, and Charles knows that Emma knows precisely why it is better for her not to bear children for the King.

“There are benefits, too,” he says, instead of allowing any more sympathy to grow for her -- after all, Emma made her own bed. She’s hardly an innocent. “But I think a child of yours and the King’s would more than likely make a terrifying monarch, so perhaps we are all better off.” Charles keeps his tone light and gently mocking, and Emma snorts.

“Perhaps so. We have to have some neighbouring nations remaining, after all,” she says, “although I wouldn’t object to being the mother of an Emperor.”

 _Thank all the dragons for the blessing of Shaw_ not _reproducing,_ Erik thinks sourly, and it’s so perfectly in line with what Charles was thinking that he has to look down at Lorna to hide his own expression, the twitch at the corner of his mouth that would give away his total and utter agreement.

“Even so,” Emma says, and it’s almost wistful, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she touches Lorna’s curly hair, “perhaps I should have married you when Sebastian suggested it, Charles, if we could have had beautiful children like this one.” She smiles at him, her mask coming back over her face, and it’s just a smirk now, covering up her true feelings just as efficiently as Charles’ habitual calm; she must know the remark will hit Erik harder than it does Charles, another alpha suggesting she might have taken Charles first, had she chosen to.

He can feel Erik’s anger reflexively flaring up in Erik’s mind and braces himself for something much worse, but Erik’s voice is remarkably even when he says, “It’s for the best you didn’t; I’m sure his Majesty prefers having you all to himself.” Erik’s hand has tightened slightly around Charles’ hips, but at least he isn’t growling at the implicit challenge, or insulting Emma in a way she’d actually recognise.

“Oh do calm down, darling,” Emma says, and her smirk deepens at the corner before she turns away, wandering off into the party. “And behave yourselves. It’s me who’ll have to clean up after if you don’t.”

“I cannot abide that woman,” Erik mutters the moment she’s out of earshot, frowning when he looks at Charles. “I’m sure I know _exactly_ what Shaw sees in her.”

“Mmm,” Charles says, not disagreeing, though he rather likes Emma, sometimes, when he dissociates her actions from her personality; there’s something brash and fierce about her that he admires, despite his loathing of the way she sold her telepathy out to Shaw, ensuring her own survival and the death of so many others who have gone against him -- he can’t blame her, really, for saving her own skin, but he can’t forgive her, either. Not quite. “At least she has good taste in babies.”

“That she does,” Erik says, and he reaches for Lorna, taking her from Charles’ arms to hold her overhead, bringing her in to nudge their noses together -- and having his daughter is clearly enough to push all thoughts of Emma Frost or Shaw from his mind, because he’s grinning already, wide and with too many teeth. “Isn’t that right, litla? Isn’t that right?”

Charles smiles just looking at them, but he can’t forget where they are or the risks of just being here, in Shaw’s power and under his eye. Emma made herself quite clear in her parting shot -- she’s watching them, keeping track of them for Shaw. So while Erik plays with Lorna, who giggles and squirms and laps up his attention, Charles keeps watch on the people around them and tries not to let his concerns spiral as he thinks ahead to their planned escape tonight.

~*~

They wait until dark has fallen, and most people are asleep; the palace is quiet and slumbering, the minds of its inhabitants under dark waters, save for the few guards and night owls who still wander its halls. Charles has been monitoring the activity in the palace for the past two hours in his mind, ever since they woke from the catnap they took directly after dinner, trying to shore up their reserves of energy for when they would be needed most. Lorna’s asleep against Charles’ chest in her sling, heavy and dreaming, her hands fisted near her face and lips pursed, stirring only a little. Charles cups his palm around the back of her head and says a brief prayer before turning to face Erik, who is checking his one remaining knife is loose in its sheath, ready to draw.

“I hope Logan wasn’t remiss in teaching you how to use that,” Erik says, nodding toward Charles, and Charles feels his own knife twitch in its sheath. 

“Any fault in my knifework is the fault of the student, not the teachers,” Charles says, with a tight smile. “Though I haven’t had to use it yet. Let’s hope I don’t have to.”

Erik doesn’t voice it, but Charles can hear that he’s worried Charles’ inexperience might mean he’s more likely to end up getting stabbed himself than stabbing his enemy. “I can control it for you if need be. Just … be careful.” He pushes the door open and Charles, who still has a thread of his telepathy looped through Erik’s mind, feels him reaching out with his power to check for weapons. “One guard, near the end of the corridor. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Charles says, looking down at Lorna one more time and nudging her deeper into sleep, then keeping her there, since her waking up could spell disaster. “Let’s go.”

They step out into the quiet corridor, the only sounds their feet on the stone and the rush of water from the far-off waves against the base of the cliffs, a hush of a breeze blowing through leaves; the guard watching their room from a discreet distance has no idea they’re even there, because Charles is projecting their absence from the corridor directly into his mind.

It’s tricky, fiddling with perception; Charles has spent so long keeping his telepathy cooped up that he’s not had much chance to master complex uses of his Gift, and he has to concentrate to keep up the illusion as they walk along the corridor towards the main part of the palace, walking quietly side-by-side. They turn at the junction of their own hallway with the main passage through the South wing, and things are better lit here, another guard at the far end that Charles blinkers just as he did the first, like putting a hood on a hawk to keep it from stooping for prey.

 _Left here_ , Erik sends to him, touching Charles’ hip lightly to nudge him in the proper direction. He keeps glancing at the guard as they pass him, like he expects the man to see through their shields at any second.

 _I’ve got him,_ Charles says reassuringly, and indeed the guard doesn’t look at them at all, too busy scratching the side of his nose. They turn left towards the central body of the palace, and Charles wishes all over again that there was a better way to get to where they need to be, but there simply isn’t -- not without being seen, caught, and Erik spent long enough scouting their routes to know that any way they took that didn’t lead straight through the most populated part of the palace would mean almost certain capture. The only guard station that doesn’t have dogs is the West Gate, because that’s where they stable guests’ horses, and dogs are immune to Charles’ power. The only way to get out unseen, and gain the head start of disappearing in the night, clean and untraceable, is the only way that is guarded entirely by humans.

Their footsteps echo uncomfortably loudly in the high ceilings of the central palace, as if ten men were escaping, not two; dampening that sound is more of a stretch, and Charles is breathing a little fast and nervous by the time they reach the West wing corridor, breaking away from the echoes into quieter halls. He can’t stop expecting to run into Shaw in the halls, somehow, for the King to simply step out and smile at them, cool and vicious. Or Emma Frost, the one person here who might feel him manipulating the guards around them, hiding his family in plain sight, though he knows from his own prospecting that both of them are asleep in their bed in the North wing, far from catching Charles and Erik in the act.

 _We’re almost there,_ Erik thinks at him, and he presses a hand to Charles’ back, rubbing between his shoulder blades, although neither of them slow their pace. _Just a little further._ The reassurance is undermined somewhat by the fear still pulsing through the back of Erik’s mind, staining every one of his uppermost thoughts.

They walk swiftly past offices and storerooms, a myriad of tiny spaces for the palace staff to work in, empty at this time of night; the West wing is mostly administrative, placed in the least pleasant part of the palace so that the nobles don’t have to smell the horse manure and the upswept stench of the city in summer, coming up from the bay on the breeze. There’s someone in a room up ahead, a maid, maybe, for whom Charles deadens the sound of their passing; Lorna wriggles in her sling, shifting in her sleep, and Charles looks down to soothe her, just for a moment, reaching in with one hand to adjust the fabric supporting her head --

\-- and a guard he can’t feel steps out of a doorway directly in front of them, his expression tired but satisfied for the few seconds before he looks up and sees Charles and Erik standing there.

“What --” the guard starts, eyes widening, and then -- a flash of recognition crosses his face and he goes for his sword, already shouting, “It’s the Duke of the North! Guards!”

Charles doesn’t even feel himself draw his knife, he just sees the flash of metal as the guard draws his sword and acts, instinct driving him forward before the man can shout any more, before he can raise his arm to direct a cut down at Lorna where she’s sleeping in Charles’ arms. Charles steps inside of the man’s reach and rams the knife through the soft underside of the man’s jaw.

The point Erik sharpened for him splits the skin so easily, sliding in like it belongs there, and the guard gurgles and falls, tearing away from the knife, blood spurting all over Charles’ hand and onto the floor, bubbling from his severed windpipe. It’s hot and gushingly wet, and Charles stares at it, red and thick and soaking into his sleeve, horror and sick disbelief catching up to him all at once, because he did this. The guard on the floor barely twitches, already gone, and Charles -- Charles has just _killed a man._

The maid is still in the storeroom, terrified at the shouting and the loud thud of her lover’s body hitting the floor, and Charles snaps back into action, putting aside his regret for later, the sick feeling of guilt; the guard must have been immune to psychic Gifts; regrettable, but Charles had a decision to make, and this man has paid the price for Charles’ love of his husband and daughter.

He wipes the memory of the fighting sounds from the maid’s mind and puts her to sleep, then turns his attention forward, towards the alphas now heading their way, running from the guards’ station further along the corridor with armour half-on, snapped awake by their comrade’s cry for help. “We need to go,” he says to Erik, turning to face his husband, who is looking at Charles almost appraisingly, like he doesn’t quite recognise him -- and Erik nods, reaching out a hand; the dead man’s sword is in his grasp a second later.

“We can’t outrun them,” Erik says. “Shield both of us from their sight. I’ll take care of it.”

Charles doubles the strength of his projection -- if Emma Frost picks up on it now it’s little matter, given the corpse they’re leaving behind them. “There are only seven coming from ahead of us,” he says, wiping off the blade on his already ruined shirt. “I can make them go around us without realising, but you need to go directly ahead of me, limit the space we take up so they can get by.”

Erik hesitates, clearly debating whether cold-blooded murder may actually be the better option, but then he says, “All right,” and steps forward, edging around the pool of blood forming beneath the guard’s body. He’s drawn his knife, one blade in each hand, and as they walk some of the silver buttons on the guard’s uniform tear free from the fabric to float in a slow orbit around Charles and Lorna.

The guards come charging around the corner, and Charles holds his breath -- his head feels hot, mind straining as he holds the thought of their utter absence, the idea of their not being in the corridor at all, though they should avoid running down the centre of the hall, should run around that empty space -- he can feel the veil of his illusion like wisps in his hands, desperately easy for it to be torn, for them to be revealed --

But the guards run past them on either side, and Charles’ entire body is tense as lute wire, walking through their midst like a ghost behind Erik’s broad back, holding the illusion so tightly that he worries he might rip it apart himself.

Somehow, however, it doesn’t break, and they walk through the West gate unseen, Erik sending his knife back to its sheath and reaching back with one hand to grasp Charles’ own, squeezing tight. _That’s the bloody one,_ Charles says, trying to tug it free so Erik can hold his clean hand instead, but Erik just grasps harder and doesn’t let go.

Down in the city things are just as quiet, their footsteps ringing out on the cobbles as they walk between the sleeping houses, Charles reaching out to keep the occupants from waking; the sky above is deep purple and full of stars, and though behind them the palace is a hubbub of activity now, guards running everywhere and shouting, racing out into the city to look for them, here and now they haven’t reached Charles and Erik, nor, when they pass on horseback, riding hard for the North gate where the palace would expect them to be heading, do they see them at all, or even slow down.

Logan and Raven are waiting for them outside the West gate of the city, horses saddled and ready to go along with the bags they packed before. Though the guilt is threatening to rise up inside of him again, to overwhelm him, nonetheless Charles mounts without speaking, one arm rising to hug Lorna’s sleeping body to his chest as beside him Erik digs in his heels and they ride east, away from the South, and Shaw.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains threats of rape/noncon.


	16. Sixteen

_Erik_

“I left your letter with Alex,” Raven says. “He’ll spread the word to our confederates in the Capital, and forward it to Ororo and Armando in the Amber Islands. They’ll be ready to move as soon as Shaw’s out of Hammer Bay.”

They rode forty-odd miles the first day, angling intentionally to ride through the Southern towns and cities nearest the Capital and leaving a bread-crumb trail for Shaw’s spies to follow; then when dusk started falling they set up camp in a field where, while out in the open, they’ll at least have the benefit of seeing any approaching riders long in advance. Even so, now that it’s dark they keep the fire down to smouldering coals, Erik poking the cinders with a long stick every several minutes to keep them from dying down. It’s unnaturally cool tonight; they sit huddled together close to the embers, Charles and Raven sharing a blanket across their shoulders, Lorna tucked close to Charles’ chest.

“Good,” Erik says, setting down his bowl of roasted squirrel and crossing his arms atop his bent knees. “They should have their ships outside Hammer Bay within the week, then.”

In the dim firelight, Raven’s yellow eyes glow like stars. “Do you have something you want me to give to your people in the North? Or do you think ‘it’s on’ is clear enough?”

“Just speak with Magda, she’ll know what to do. You can find her on the glacier; Charles will help you.”

Charles snorts, the sound loud and surprising in the quiet camp. “Not from down here I can’t,” he says, looking up from where he’s been letting Lorna play with his fingers. He raises an eyebrow, the line of his mouth stubborn and set. “I’m not going North.”

Erik blinks, a little taken aback, and meets Charles’ gaze, feeling his lips tug down into a frown. “It’s not safe for Lorna to be on the front,” he says, but it’s not much of an argument. It will be no safer for her in Ironhold, once Shaw’s men arrive in the North. 

“Exactly,” Charles says in answer to Erik’s unspoken thought, his expression rather mulish. “I’m far more use to you down here, Erik, as you well know, and frankly, I only just got here. I’m not running away like some scared little mouse when I know full well that I’m more than capable of helping my husband win this damn war.”

The coals crackle and shift in front of them, settling again. “...All right,” Erik says, surprising even himself a little with how easily he acquiesces -- but maybe some part of him expected this. The decision comes with the sense of being one he’s already made. He reaches into his bowl for a piece of now-cold squirrel. “Raven will go alone, then. Speak to Moira when you get there, and she’ll put you in contact with the people you need to meet.”

“Take some of them with you,” Logan says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the soldiers Charles had brought down with him from Ironhold when he came to the Capital, camped some metres away with their own low fire. “No need takin’ unnecessary risk.”

“That sounds like a solid plan.” Charles looks down at Lorna again, his attention dissipating once more. He’s been distracted all day, even while riding; it’s unlike Charles to take a backseat in a discussion, at least since they started being more honest with one another. Erik reaches over and rests one hand on his knee, but it feels … insufficient, in a way; he doesn’t let the touch linger.

“We should sleep now,” Erik says, glancing up at the position of the moon overhead; it’s never a sure estimate, not like the sun, but even so he’d wager it’s nearing on ten. “I want to leave before dawn.”

“Fuckin’ sadist,” Logan mutters, but he pushes himself up to his feet all the same, kicking dirt over the coals. “I’ll let the boys know.” He stomps off toward the secondary camp, rubbing at the back of his neck with one large hand.

“Come on,” Erik says to Charles, lowering his voice a little as he reaches for the near-empty waterskins. “Let’s go fill these up at the stream.” He wants to draw Charles away from Raven, even if only briefly; something about Charles’ reticence makes him feel uneasy, like swallowed seawater in his stomach. Charles smiles, just a little, and gets to his feet, hefting Lorna higher against his shoulder and reaching for another pair of waterskins, letting Raven catch the blanket as it falls from his back. 

“All right,” he says, keeping his own voice low to match Erik’s. His mind is a low hum in the back of Erik’s head, only palpable in its presence, not close enough to read in return. “Raven, we’ll be back in a few minutes with water.”

“Okay. Don’t fall in,” Raven says, burrowing deeper under the blanket she was sharing with Charles and reaching out with quick blue fingers to steal the rest of Erik’s abandoned squirrel.

Erik stays silent until they’re well out of earshot, one hand resting possessively at the small of Charles’ back, right above the beginning swell of his ass. “How are you doing?” he asks once he’s certain Raven won’t overhear -- although there’s not much to be done about Logan’s enhanced hearing. “You’ve been quiet.” Even when exhausted, like he is now, Charles is never _quiet._

Charles’ smile fades, like an autumn leaf crisping in the fire; curling in on itself until it becomes a tight, thin line, and then vanishing. It’s as if he stops pretending -- his shoulders slump a little, his step losing its crispness. “I keep thinking about that man I killed,” he says finally, and his voice is a rasp, too, as though he inhaled the smoke of his smile. “I know -- I know why I did it, but -- there was so much blood.”

Oh. Erik feels heavier all of a sudden. “He was a soldier,” he says, flattening his hand against Charles’ back. “He knew this might happen. It was a risk he took when he enlisted.” _A fate he richly deserves,_ Erik thinks coldly, but he knows Charles doesn’t share his opinions on the virtues of all the men voluntarily in Shaw’s service, so he presses his lips together and swallows that thought, says instead, “It was him or us, and you chose us.”

“I know that.” Charles sighs, his arms tightening around Lorna, who wriggles and protests by smacking him on the ear. “Ow. I’d do it again, of course I would, but, well, it’s hard to remember that part when I keep thinking of the maid he was with, who loved him. And wondering who else loved him. I had to do it, or he would have hurt Lorna, or you. But it doesn’t mean it’s _easy_.” He looks up at Erik with a wry, old look in his eyes that Erik would have given all his wealth not to have seen on Charles’ face, not really a smile, just a parody of one. “I just have to get used to the fact that I’m a killer now.”

“Is that it, then?” Erik asks, hand grazing up Charles’ spine to slip into the hair at his nape instead, stroking down against Charles’ warm skin. “There are two kinds of people in the world, people who are killers, and people who aren’t? It’s never that simple.” He’d like to tell Charles he understands, but for Erik, it’s only too easy to kill an enemy. He doesn’t remember a time he felt guilty for it, or cared who might have been left behind. The realisation is a strange one, in a way; he wonders if there’s some basic goodness that’s missing from him, that he’s never not been cold. It doesn’t matter. If he’s lost that humanity, it’s simply another stolen thing he can lay at Shaw’s feet. “People die, for many different reasons. And some of them die in war. Blame the way of the world, if you must, but don’t blame yourself.”

“It just … bothers me,” Charles says, though he leans against Erik’s shoulder, head tipping forward to give him better access to the back of his neck. “I feel people’s lives every day, happening all around me … it’s hard to know that I ended one. Even for a good reason. I’ll be okay, but I’m not going to stop feeling bad about it.”

“I didn’t say you had to,” Erik says, smiling a little, and he rubs his thumb against the small hollow at the very base of Charles’ skull, fingers slipping ‘round to rest over the throb of Charles’ pulse. “You know he might not be the last, don’t you? This war won’t be over for a long time. It’s very possible you may find yourself in that position all over again.”

Charles shrugs, letting out a sharp breath. “And if I have to, I’ll do it again,” he says, “as many times as necessary. I’m practical enough for that.” He smiles, then, tight but real, and leans up to kiss Erik on the mouth.

“I love you,” Erik says when the kiss breaks, holding Charles there for a moment, looking into his eyes. “And I will keep loving you, no matter what happens.” Even if Charles has to carve his way through a thousand men.

“Perhaps not a thousand,” Charles says, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little bit, and then, “I love you, too,” though the last of it is interrupted by Lorna saying, firmly, “Baaah!”

Erik grins, the moment broken, and reaches to brush his fingers through Lorna’s curly hair, saying, “Bah to you, too.” She laughs, kicking her feet against Charles’ side, and Erik looks back up at him. “I need you to summon the dragons for me,” he says. “They’ll need to be made aware of what’s happened.” That it’s finally, at long last, time to seek justice for the North and the Frjáls people, that their assistance is necessary.

Charles’ eyebrows rise. “I’ll try, but I don’t know if they’ll be able to hear me from so far away. It must be hundreds of miles -- that’s far outside my range.”

“Try,” Erik insists. The dragons’ telepathy is stronger than Charles’, than any human’s. They may be able to hear him, regardless.

“All right,” Charles says, and though he still sounds dubious he closes his eyes, a far-off look coming to his face, expression going slack. Lorna squirms again in his arms but Charles doesn’t move; he’s still as a statue, and Erik can almost feel the absence of him, as if his body is an empty vessel, its contents gone for a wander.

After a time Charles opens his eyes again, and looks at Erik, slowly focusing until he’s awake and aware in his own body once more. “I don’t know if they heard me,” he says, and adjusts his hold on Lorna. “I’ll keep trying, though, as we move further North.”

Before they walk back they pause to fill their waterskins at the stream with cool, clear water; Charles is still a subdued presence in the back of Erik’s mind as they walk back to camp, but he reaches out his free hand to clasp it with Erik’s own, squeezing. Charles is stronger than he knows. They’re about to face a very real danger, and there’s a chance they won’t survive it, but whatever the coming months bring, Erik’s certain they can withstand it together.

~*~

_Charles_

It’s easier to say, however, than it is to really put aside the way he feels about having killed that guard. Charles lays awake that night and stares at the stars overhead, the darkness between them, and wonders ... what happens now, now that he’s ended a life?

Nothing, seems to be the answer. But it feels wrong for there to be no change, for everything to just -- continue on, as if nothing ever happened at all, when Charles can still remember the feel of the blood on his hand, smell it, thick and salt-copper, see the look on the man’s face as he fell.

Charles turns over again under the blankets and lays his head once more against Erik’s shoulder, trying to bury his nose in the familiar smell of alpha and sweat. He’s trying not to wake anyone, but he feels Erik stir against him, and the small dart of guilt that pricks him is nothing to the selfish relief at not being alone in the dark.

“Hey,” Erik murmurs, rolling over toward him, arm sliding over Charles’ hip. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not so far, no,” Charles whispers back, leaning gratefully into Erik’s body, snugging himself into the curve of him, so they’re laying flush from thigh to sternum. He can hear Lorna snuffling in her own little bedroll behind him, deeply asleep; everyone else is in various stages of dreaming, their thoughts soft-edged and clouded by unconsciousness. “Sorry to wake you.”

“I was awake already,” Erik says, and Charles can feel the twinge in his thoughts that betrays the lie; he opens his eyes and gazes at Charles through the dark, his thumb smoothing up and down along Charles’ hipbone. Charles lets him have this one, though, his own hand coming up to rest on the side of Erik’s head, brushing his fingertips along the seashell curve of Erik’s ear, strangely delicate where it protrudes through the strands of his hair. “I don’t want to think any more,” he says, and he tugs on Erik’s head until he bows enough for Charles to kiss him, lips sealing against one another and swallowing any telltale sounds.

Erik’s lips part against his, and his hand moves down from Charles’ hip to curl around the back of his thigh, tugging Charles’ leg forward over his. His teeth catch on Charles’ lower lip, tugging slightly, and Charles makes a soft little growl in his throat, more vibration than sound, before getting his other hand between them to start tugging at the waistband of Erik’s breeches so he can get his hand inside, sliding it under the fabric. Erik’s cock is hot and hardening when Charles’ fingers wrap around it, twitching against his palm, and Charles strokes him as best he can in the confined space, using his thigh as leverage to pull himself closer under the blankets.

Somewhere off in the darkness someone’s snore hitches, and Charles pauses for a moment, stroke stilling, to make sure they’re still asleep, before continuing the steady motion of his hand. 

_Logan will know_ , Erik thinks at him, but the thought’s not accompanied by anything like concern, not really; Erik’s fingers are already undoing the fastenings at the waist of Charles’ trousers, clumsy, since his other hand’s busy rubbing the cleft of Charles’ ass through the fabric, dragging against his slickening hole.

 _Logan always knows, it’s nothing new to him,_ Charles replies, with only a twinge of self-consciousness; he rides back a little against Erik’s probing hand before saying, _Don’t ruin my breeches, I have to wear these tomorrow._

Charles can feel Erik rolling his eyes even if he doesn’t see it; Erik is kissing his neck, and he nips a little too hard near Charles’ collarbone before tugging Charles’ hand out of his pants and pushing Charles onto his back, hooking both thumbs into Charles’ waistband to pull his breeches down. It’s a rough struggle, getting them off without sacrificing the flimsy modesty the blanket affords them, but Charles manages it with a little careful effort, shoving them down with his toes until he can kick them away into the bottom of the blanket where he can retrieve them tomorrow.

Probably this is a bad idea -- probably this is inappropriate in the worst possible way, surrounded by people and out under the stars, but Charles needs to stop thinking about the look on that guard’s face when Charles’ knife went up through his throat and into his brain, the dying of the light in the man’s eyes, like a match blowing out in a brisk wind.

 _Now you,_ Charles says, pulling purposefully on Erik’s pants until he can get those far enough down to join his own, too; he can feel Erik’s cock hanging hard between them underneath the tails of Erik’s shirt, the tip wet and swollen where it trails a slick line down Charles’ thigh. 

Charles reaches up to wrap one arm around Erik’s back even as he spreads his legs, tenting the blanket over them with his raised knees but making room for Erik to settle on top of him. In the starlight Erik is a dark shape above him, blotting out the night sky, and when Charles kisses him and closes his eyes he feels like he’s sinking into a sea of sensation, deprived of the visual only to find everything else is deeper, more vivid, the touch of Erik’s skin and the scent of their arousal, Erik’s breath brushing against the side of his neck and the blunt nudge of Erik’s cock between Charles’ buttocks, searching blindly for his hole.

Erik lets out a harsh breath when he finally pushes in, his cock thick and stretching against the walls inside him, and even eased by Charles’ lubrication it’s not as smooth as it had been during heat; Erik has to thrust a little just to get it buried completely in Charles’ asshole, grasping at Charles’ shoulder for leverage, fingers pressing against his skin. _Fuck,_ Charles manages, straining up against Erik, trying to pull him in deeper.

 _That is the general idea._ Even in his head, Erik’s voice is hoarse.

 _Come on, come --_ Charles gasps when Erik pulls out an inch, then shoves back in, and then they’re moving, together, Charles pushing up against Erik even as Erik pushes down into him, gasping and trying to muffle their sounds, fingers grasping and slipping on the sweaty skin of Erik’s ass where he’s grabbed handfuls of him, Erik’s cock filling him up, stuffing him full over and over. “Ah,” Charles breathes, lungs hitching when Erik hits him particularly deep, and his back arches off the blanket underneath him, mouth falling open. He’s lost the train of his thoughts, but it doesn’t seem to matter any more.

“Ssh,” Erik murmurs, but he’s grinning, teeth a white gleam in the moonlight, rolling his hips between Charles’ legs and reaching for his cock, starting to stroke him in time with his thrusts.  
Raven shifts in her bedroll a metre away but Erik doesn’t stop, just leans in close and kisses Charles’ earlobe, tongue flicking out to tease at the thin skin underneath. Raven’s not quite awake, but she’s near the surface; a little desperately Charles nudges her back down, because it’s one thing to contemplate being caught but quite another for his _sister_ to wake up to the sound of him being thoroughly fucked. _Asshole_ , he thinks, but it’s fond, even as his hips keep jerking up against Erik’s, driving him on.

He’s close now, hole rippling and squeezing around Erik, working around him; Charles’ own cock is thrumming with pleasure, his belly hot and tight with it. Erik thrusts hard into him and Charles comes with a muffled groan that he stifles with his fist, stuffing it over his mouth to try and keep it from waking anyone as he clenches down hard on Erik’s dick, shooting his own come over his belly and hopefully not too much on his shirt.

“Good,” Erik whispers, jerking him through his orgasm, and he doesn’t let up his own rhythm, hips snapping down against Charles’ ass a little faster now, fucking him harder, rougher. He’s getting close -- Charles can tell, even through the climax-saturated haze in his own mind, can feel the need that strains Erik’s every thought, until at last Erik is gasping and coming inside him, the knot swelling up and locking inside Charles’ hole, rubbing firmly against his rim. Charles pants, and pets Erik’s head and neck, stroking over his hair, the lines of his eyebrows, the soft underside of his chin, and then tugs him down for a kiss, wrapping one leg up and around Erik’s hips to pull him in close and tight, so they can come down together.

With the aftermath of his orgasm running through him now it’s easy for Charles to fall asleep, still tied to Erik but comfortable and thoughtless at last.

~*~

Charles wakes up and cleans up before anyone else is awake; he and Erik had separated in the night, though they still lay curled up together close under the blankets, and by the time the rest of the camp is rousing they’re presentable and properly dressed, with only a faint scent lingering in the blankets to give them away. As dawn breaks the men are hunched over their low fires, heating up a mash of oats to keep them going for another long day of riding.

When Erik comes up to stand beside Charles where he’s looking out over the landscape Charles says, without pausing in his survey, mind still stretching out beyond the horizon for pursuers, “I think we need to discuss what happens as and when we win this war.”

Erik’s silent for a moment beside him, his hand resting on the hilt of the sword he’d stolen from the man Charles killed. “Yes,” he says at last. It’s something they’ve been avoiding, given the conflict in their specific goals. “With Raven, before she goes.”

“She’s not particularly interested in being Queen.” Charles turns to look at Erik, and it feels relieving to say it out loud; he smiles ruefully. “But if we want Genosha to stay together as a country, to unite behind someone who isn’t Shaw, Raven is by far the best candidate, and she knows that. She’d be a very good Queen, Erik. Her reluctance is probably why, in fact.”

Erik’s lips press tight together, and Charles hears his old, reflexive thought, that Erik doesn’t care what happens to the South, if it stays united as a nation or not -- that Erik would just as soon raze the fields and pillage every city, burn it all to the ground. But that need for vengeance is tempered somewhat, now, and just as quickly Charles feels Erik letting his anger diffuse, settling back down. 

“I cannot speak for the Islanders,” he says, “but I can say this: the North will not stay with Genosha. Not under any circumstances.” He turns his gaze to Charles and it’s hard, his eyes narrowed. “I won’t yield on this, Charles. Don’t try to make me.”

“I didn’t expect you would,” Charles says, and glances back towards camp, where he can see Raven talking to Logan, blue skin glittering iridescent in the new light. He’s never been fool enough to think that Erik would have anything to do with Genosha, given the choice -- there’s too much bad blood there, and too much history. “We will need to discuss something around the army, because Genosha will be left without any standing force to speak of if we do win, after the Svarti and the North, and without the North’s half of the headcount. But I think we should speak about that with Raven’s involvement.”

Erik nods, and he steps back toward the camp, reaching to trail his fingers briefly along Charles’ hip before his hand drops away. Raven and Logan look up at them as they approach, Raven smiling and offering Charles a bowl of the oatmeal. 

“Is Lorna still asleep?” she asks.

“She’ll be up soon,” Charles says, after a more direct thought in Lorna’s direction; he’s kept his mind on her, of course, and she’s safe enough in the middle of camp, but when she wakes she’ll be wanting to be fed, and coddled, and better that Charles is there at once than that she wakes up surrounded by strangers. “Erik and I were just saying that we need to settle what our plan is for after the war, assuming that we win. We’ve left it alone up until now, but I think this is the time to discuss it and tentatively agree what we plan to do with the land we win.”

Logan looks as though he’s contemplating leaving, and Charles says before he can, “Please, Logan, stay. We’d appreciate your input.”

“You know this ain’t exactly my area of expertise,” Logan says, but he sits down anyway when the rest of them do, stealing one of the waterskins to fill up his hip flask.

“As I’ve said to Charles,” Erik begins, “my demand for Northern autonomy is absolute.” The way he phrases it suggests, to Charles at least, that he no longer intends on making the further demand that the South be annexed under Northern control -- or at least, it’s not his starting argument. It’s a little surprising, given how stalwart Erik had been on the subject when first it was discussed.

“Look,” Raven says, settling her hands between her thighs, a firm expression in her eyes. “If I’m supposed to be Queen, and according to Charles I am, then I have to think about everyone in this kingdom.” She glances at Charles, and it seems to remind her of what they discussed before, because she continues with more confidence then, even if her speech is a little rehearsed-sounding. “I’d grant you your autonomy gratefully for getting rid of Shaw, but it would leave Genosha without a leg to stand on army-wise, and someone would invade within the year. Everyone knows the North is the backbone of Genosha’s army. Charles and I talked about this while you were away, and in the end we thought the best thing to do would be to discuss a mutual support pact. Someone invades us, you help us kick them out, and vice versa. How does that sound?”

“Of course the North would be happy to help you defend your borders against outside threat,” Erik says. “But I’d like to take that a step further. You’ll need manpower to maintain order within your own country, once my armies and the Svarti are done decimating the Southerners. I would dispatch units to compose sixty percent of your military power, effective for fifty years.”

“It would need to be under oath never to turn those units against the South,” Charles says, voice calm and quiet. It’s strange, to be arguing against Erik, but then Charles is rather caught in the middle now -- neither fully Southern nor fully Northern, caught between interests. “I know fifty years is a long time to guarantee that for, but I would think the oath would need to be that in the event of a war between the two, the Northern troops would be entirely of different units, or that those stationed in the South would have to be retracted first.”

Erik shakes his head. “I can’t make that guarantee. I might know Raven, but I also know the Southern people, and those of the current noble class. My primary goal will always be to prevent another genocide by your country against mine. If that threat arises, I wouldn’t prevent my units from acting upon it.”

“Except that means you’re asking Genosha to trust that you’d never turn those troops against them without provocation, which also means trusting whoever is Duke or Duchess after you not to decide to use them to take over from the inside,” Charles says. “I mean, hopefully our children wouldn’t do that, but it’s a big risk to a country with no way to stop you -- us? you know what I mean -- from just waiting until their backs are turned. It would never fly with the nobility, and without their support Raven will never be Queen, making the point moot.”

“An exercise in trust, then, for the people with so much blood on their hands,” Erik says dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You aren’t Shaw, Raven, but you have to recognise that you are inheriting a country which has committed war crimes. The South will be held accountable to the fullest extent that I can make it so. A Northern military presence in the South is a gesture of good-will on your part to those against whom your people have committed atrocities -- and our units’ skill benefits you, in turn.” 

“I don’t see that we have much choice, Charles,” Raven says, turning to look at Charles with lips pursed, his own frustration echoed in her eyes. “We don’t have the manpower for it ourselves without the North, so either way we’re fucked. We’re less fucked if we can rely on family ties to keep the North from wanting to destroy Genosha in the first place, and given your marriage … I don’t see another good option.”

“Nnnn… fine,” Charles says, and lets out a long, slow breath, making himself accept the necessity of it, even if he may not like the plan. “We’ll need to think of a way to present it to the nobility so that they won’t immediately start an uprising, then. We also need to have a similar discussion to this with the Amber Islanders, but as they’re not here we can shelve that for now. In any case -- the North reverts to Erik’s rule as its own nation, and the rest of Genosha, Islands pending, falls under Raven’s rule. Is that agreed?”

“Agreed,” Erik says. “Erik -- “ Logan begins, and Erik then continues, smoothly, “Genosha’s new Queen will find a list of the North’s further requests for reparation on her desk when she assumes office.”

“I already gave you my brother,” Raven says dryly, eyebrows rising. “What sorts of reparations are we talking about?”

“The heads of them bastards responsible for killing the Frjáls and telepaths would be a good start,” Logan says.

“I have a list,” Erik says, nodding. “Those who were particularly implicated in the murders, or who funded the genocide with monetary contributions greater than 500 guilders, will be extradited to the North for sentencing. Furthermore, reparations for the towns which were destroyed in Shaw’s crusade, either monetary or labour, to aid reconstruction of damaged property. The money to compensate the surviving Frjáls and other family members of the victims can be drained from the accounts of the men you extradite to us.”

“How long a list are we talking about?” Charles asks, though he’s getting to his feet even as he says it; Lorna is waking up. “Not because I don’t agree that they should be punished for their misdeeds, but we do need to be conscious of not undermining the entire country’s power structure all at once. There’s no point kicking Shaw out just for Genosha to devolve into another massive civil war. It could well cost more lives than Shaw did in his crimes against the North.”

“You and I can go over it together,” Erik says. “Right now the list is at just over fifty heads. I would ask that all be extradited, but we can discuss assigning lesser punishments than execution to those who only contributed monetarily, which would allow the Genoshan class structure to remain mostly intact.”

“All right,” Raven says, and once Charles has turned back towards them with Lorna he sees her and Erik shake hands, grips firm and eyes meeting. “It’s agreed. Now, let’s actually eat this glop and then get going.”

After that, things move fairly swiftly; it seems no time at all until they’ve eaten, and then Charles looks at Raven and thinks -- she’s leaving now, and I may never see her again.

He barely realises he’s walking towards her until he’s already there and putting his arms around her, hugging Raven in tight to his body and ignoring her squawk of surprise; she’s warm and solid in his arms, and after a moment she hugs him back, hard, squeezing him in close and rocking a little from side to side, her thoughts much the same as Charles’ -- not wanting to let go, because that means having to go their separate ways.

“Be safe,” Charles says into her hair, eyes closed and a little wet at the corners, if he’s truly honest with himself. It’s been so long since he first got used to being without her that he’s lost the trick of it. “Don’t take any stupid risks, okay?”

Raven’s voice is tight. “I could say the same to you,” she says, and squeezes him harder before stepping back and away, looking at Charles from arm’s length. “I mean it, Charles. Be safe, okay? If you die then there won’t be a Genosha to save, because Erik will burn it to the ground and salt the fields.”

Charles laughs, and finally detaches, wiping at his eyes with the end of his sleeve. “I love you. See you soon, okay?”

“I love you, too.” And with that, Raven turns and mounts her horse, reaching down only to mess up Charles’ hair obnoxiously before she’s nudging her horse into a walk, then a brisk trot, following after the soldiers going with her with the ease of a well-trained rider. She doesn’t look back.

“She’ll be all right,” Erik says; Charles hadn’t heard him coming up behind him, and now Erik is placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. “She’s a good fighter. And she can disguise herself if anyone gets suspicious.”

Charles turns and smiles at Erik, though it’s weak, then at Lorna in Erik’s arms, her head tilted against his shoulder with her thumb lodged firmly in her mouth, big green eyes blinking at Charles. “I know,” he says, reaching up to put his hand over Erik’s, squeezing gently. Then, “We’d better get going ourselves.”

They mount in short order and leave the campsite behind, this time making sure not to tidy up too much after themselves -- they want Shaw to follow, and the signs of their passing can only help with that. As they ride Charles turns over the morning’s discussion in his mind, trying to think of anything they’ve missed; it’s astonishing really that they could come to an agreement so quickly, given how intractable Erik was when they last discussed it all, insisting that he was going to invade and take over the South. It’s a vast improvement, and Charles can’t help but reach out warmly to Erik in his mind, radiating a feeling of approval that Erik queries with a raised eyebrow directed at Charles over his shoulder but which Charles chooses not to qualify.

~*~

_Erik_

The dragons find them the second night. Erik feels them coming long before he sees them, their telepathic presence like a sharpening around the edges of his thoughts, the sense of cool night and glittering stars, a core of burning heat and air beneath strong wings. He wakes Charles with a nudge to his arm when he senses they have arrived; Charles reaches out a hand to where Lorna dozes next to them, brushing a hand over her brow, then uncurls himself sleepily from where he’d been half-draped over Erik and they slip silently away from the camp, over a rocky knoll to where the dragons wait.

Andvari is black as pitch, a shadow darker than the midnight around it, eyes gleaming as they draw close; behind it, Rók sits with wings tucked in toward her sides, long forked tongue slithering out to lick at sharp teeth.

 _You’ve grown, Kenig,_ Andvari says, bizarrely, shifting closer, talons digging into the dirt. Andvari is staring at him, unblinking, until Erik can’t help feeling uncomfortable. And then, at last, it adds: _How is your hatchling?_

“Lorna’s perfect,” Erik says, lips cracking into a smile. “She’s gotten big.”

“It’s very good to see you again,” Charles says, sounding tentative, like he’s not sure it’s a good idea to speak; Erik wonders how it feels to him, to be so close to such enormous telepathic power, an entirely different experience from Erik’s. “Thank you for coming -- I wasn’t sure I’d been able to reach you.”

 _Our power is far-ranging,_ Andvari says; it takes a step forward and its claw lands atop a stone, grinds it into dust beneath its weight. _It is time, then, to seek our justice?_

Erik nods. “Shaw’s men will be riding east even as we speak. He knows this is war.”

_And what is your plan for him and these men?_

“When we reach the border, we’ll join with Svarti forces to crush what remains of Shaw’s armies. Raven -- Charles’ sister -- rides south now to alert the Islanders that the time has come. They will lay siege to Hammer Bay while the Frjáls push down from the North.” Erik smirks a tiny bit. “All this, of course, after a _formal_ declaration of war. After all, I’d hate to play against the rules.”

 _Hmm. Yes. You look to crush his Southern forces between your armies; a sound strategy. But what then?_ Andvari asks as if it does not already know, as if it hasn’t seen all their plans and schemes already laid out in Erik’s mind, but there is no ignoring a dragon’s questions.

“Raven is among those next in line, after Shaw, for the Genoshan throne. She has political support already from the young nobility. The North will have its own autonomous rule, allied with the South under Raven’s command. To ensure recompense for the Frjáls genocide, she has agreed to pay retribution and send those responsible North to face a Frjáls court. They’ll have their fates decided by their victims. And to make sure nothing like that ever happens again, the North will maintain a greater than fifty percent military presence in the South for fifty years.” It’s the simplistic version he speaks aloud, presenting the details and the names of those he intends to see executed in his mind alongside his words for Andvari to see.

 _What’s this, Kenig? No great quest for vengeance? What happened to irrigating their fields with the blood of Southern sons and daughters?_ If Erik isn’t mistaken, there’s something almost lightly mocking about the way Andvari says it, but it isn’t unkind. 

“The ones responsible will be held accountable for their crimes. They and Shaw will die.” It’s not that Erik absolves the Southern common population of its complaisance in what happened, but can he justify wiping them out without discrimination? They are responsible, but not their children, or their children’s children, and that is who will inherit -- and those children will grow up in a kingdom Raven will shape in a new image, one not drunk on the blood Shaw spills for them. “Don’t mistake me -- I don’t forgive the Southern people. I never will.” He clenches his jaw and stares hard into Andvari’s gaze, that old anger still hot in his bones. “But this isn’t about revenge. It’s about justice for the dead and liberty, for the living.”

Andvari’s tail swishes through the dust, heavy and as long as the great temple hall itself, spikes dragging long grooves in the earth. _I can see in your mind, Kenig, what it is you have decided; and that the Southern King has driven you past the point of necessity. And I can see, also, that you have grown; you are no longer the rash youngling you were before this journey._ The dragon turns its head to inspect Erik with one great eye, and its tongue flickers from its enormous mouth for a moment before it continues, _You are of age of mind as well as of body, and with more measure to your wisdom. Yes, I think it meet that we name you now, before the confrontation with the South._

Erik glances at Charles, who looks as confused as he feels. “I don’t understand,” he says after a moment. “Name me?”

 _Perhaps,_ says Rók, with an air of amusement in her voice, _We should not name the human our equal, if he is not able to understand the offer._

 _Oh._ “I thought -- ” Erik begins, but Charles has grabbed his arm, and when Erik looks at him Charles’ eyes are shining with some kind of effervescent joy, bright and ecstatic. “They mean it,” Charles says, sounding almost breathless. “They’re naming you -- Erik, this is just what we need. There’s nothing Shaw can do to equal dragons.”

Erik stands there, stunned, and Rók’s lips curl into something like an indulgent grin, one full of many teeth. He reaches for Charles, pressing a hand to the small of Charles’ back, feeling the warmth of him radiating out through layers of clothing into his palm.

 _When we name a human our equal, we also give them a Name,_ Andvari says, as if it hadn’t been interrupted at all. _So that all may know our chosen by their deeds and skills. I name you Erik Ironscale, for your metal Gift, and for your strong defence of your people against encroaching evil. Do you accept the burden, Erik Ironscale, of being the equal of a dragon? It is a heavy burden to bear._

“I … do,” Erik says, voice only slightly uneven, and he doesn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t this -- a sudden heat blooming in the pit of his stomach, unfurling outward and stretching toward the very tips of his fingers, until his very skin felt lit from within.

~*~


	17. Seventeen

_Erik_

 

It’s dawn when they finally ride into the Northern camp. The soldiers are just waking up, gathering ‘round camp fires sharing dried fish and nutty oatmeal, and many of them look twice when they see just who it is Erik’s riding into camp alongside, their gazes lingering on Charles and the tiny green-haired babe strapped to his chest. Bobby Drake is crouching in front of a young fire near his tent, turning a rabbit on a spit, and he jumps up when they approach, bowing a little deeper than normal. 

“Your Grace,” he says, then corrects: “Your Graces.” He’s still staring at Lorna when he straightens up again, and curiosity must overcome etiquette because he asks, “What’s going on?”

“We’re moving camp,” Erik says. “I want every alpha in the Northern armies shifted one league to the west by noon. And a runner to send a message across to the Svarti lines.”

“And another,” Charles says from beside him, his voice calm and firm; Erik feels a rush of affection for him like a warm glow in his chest, “to tell the Southern army to stay put, and that we’re moving in accordance with the King’s plan.”

Drake’s eyes widen, and he looks between Charles and Erik, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue. “Already?” 

Erik nods. “We don’t have much time. He’ll be here within the day.”

“And … sir, your husband -- ?”

“Tell the troops to obey the Duke Consort’s orders as if they were mine.”

“Lorna’s you can disregard for the time being,” Charles says dryly, then his voice says in Erik's head, _He’s trying to think of a diplomatic way to say it’s not safe for us to be here. I’d like to see him make me leave._

Erik’s mouth presses into a thin smile and he says, a little more gently, “You have your orders. You’re dismissed, Captain.”

“...Thank you, sir,” Drake says, tipping his head forward and then turning, grabbing the nearest aide and walking with him toward the administrative tents, already murmuring in the man's ear.

“Well,” Charles says in an exaggeratedly aristocratic voice once Drake has gone, looking around at the busy camp. He’s entirely out of place here against the backdrop of canvas tents and old, dented metal, in his fine clothes and carrying a baby, and he clearly knows it, because he continues in that same self-mocking tone, “it’s hardly Hammer Bay, and I can’t see anywhere to request some chilled wine, but I suppose it will do well enough.” He glances at Erik, the corner of his lips turning up. “Where would you like to put us? Since I assume you have various soldierly things to do.”

Erik smiles at him, and dismounts from his horse, walking over to let Charles pass Lorna into his arms so he can get down as well. She starts crying almost immediately, disturbed by the sudden movement, and he shushes her gently, bouncing her in his arms with her head cupped in the palm of his hand. “You can take my tent for the time being, but it’ll have to be moved with the others eventually,” he says to Charles, turning his head to press a brief kiss to Lorna’s wet cheek. “Hush, litla -- It may be a bit of a mess, unfortunately; I didn’t have time to fix all of the damage Azazel did before leaving for the Capital.” 

“How inconvenient,” Charles says, dismounting easily, and lifts his nose high. “I shall have to complain to the seneschal. I am a Duke’s Consort, and I expect to be catered to.” He flaps his hand at Erik, clearly trying to continue the joke, but then he smiles, the expression breaking up his pretence. “That’s fine, Erik. Honestly, for now the best thing we can do is stay out of your way. Once Shaw arrives I can start making myself useful.”

Erik offers him the arm that isn’t holding Lorna, straightening his back to a more military posture, and says, in his best attempt at a Southern accent, “Well, then, Your Grace, if you will allow me to show you to your chambers?”

“Hmph. I suppose you’ll do, too,” Charles says, and takes Erik’s arm, leaning into his side a little bit as they walk. 

Erik can feel Charles’ mind rubbing up against his own just as close, and he’s getting more used to interpreting what he feels from it -- under the humour and good show Charles is putting on outwardly is a sense of anxiety and nervous anticipation that nags at the top layer, trying to dispel it. Erik feels much the same; although he’s been waiting for this war his entire life, now that it’s at his door fear is welling up to twine with the anger, fear not that he will die, but that Charles will. Their daughter. The free people of the North. That, after this is done, he won’t have anything left to do with himself -- only, that’s not entirely true anymore, is it? He rubs his thumb against the back of Charles’ wrist and bounces Lorna further up his hip, leading them through the narrow twisting paths of the war camp.

There are more stares from those who haven’t seen Charles and Lorna in camp yet as they walk, but most of the alphas are already in motion, packing things away ready for the move to the new camp. Erik pauses to speak to some of the soldiers about specific tasks, but all in all it’s not long until they reach Erik’s tent, and Charles ducks inside ahead of Erik, pausing just inside the door flap and making a hissing noise through his teeth.

“It looks like a tornado hit,” Charles says when Erik shoulders his way in to stand beside him, looking at the destruction he had no time to repair before his mad ride to the Capital. The desk is still in pieces on the floor; the bedding is all askew, his papers piled all over the floor and dusted with down feathers, and there’s a long slash in the tent wall that Erik hadn’t even noticed before, most likely from Azazel’s sword. He catches the torn edge between two fingers, the wind flapping past the fabric, and sighs.

“He had a ceramic blade,” Erik says, bringing his hand back up to the back of Lorna’s head; she, at least, has stopped crying for now. “And ceramic arrows. Impossible to trace him with my Gift, even if he hadn't been a teleporter.”

Charles’ expression is dark, even as he bends to start picking up Erik’s papers, scooping them together into a rough pile. “It wouldn’t have done him any good once I came after him,” he says, reaching for another page that’s caught under the collapsed desk. "Gods. And he was sat right next to me at dinner!"

“It seems Shaw found him a useful man. Jack of all trades, shall we say.” Erik says, tilting his head out of the way as Lorna tries to grab at his nose. “Royal swordmaster. Assassin. Poisoner -- was there anything he couldn’t do?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say he was the Kingsblade,” Charles says, finished with the papers and standing up again with them in his arms, only to sigh and set them down again in the corner, since there’s nowhere else to put them in the tent. “There were always rumours Shaw had an assassin answering his beck and call, but nobody knew if it was true or who it was. It would make sense to hide Lord Azazel in plain sight.”

“Shaw never did like to do his own dirty work,” Erik says, tasting his own disapproval on his tongue as he steps closer to Charles. 

Lorna yelps, reaching both hands for Charles and making a grabby motion; Erik lets Charles take her, and Lorna immediately reaches for _Charles’_ nose this time. Erik laughs as Charles’ face scrunches up and he tries to bat her hand away. “Careful, now,” he teases.

“If Raven needs a new Kingsblade, we may have a good candidate here,” Charles says, giving in and letting Lorna take hold of his nose, her fingers exploring its strong contour. “She clearly has a killer instinct.” It’s as though the joke fades for Charles after a moment, though, his expression tightening, smile fading. “I wonder where she got that from,” he says quietly, but this does not sound like a joke.

“Probably from me,” Erik says flatly, refusing to let Charles continue to entertain guilt over killing the guard in Shaw’s palace. “I’ve taken the lives of more than I could possibly count. Perhaps you think me a monster for it.”

Charles blinks, then gives Erik a sheepish, apologetic look, wincing a little when Lorna’s sharp little nails catch his nostril. “No, not at all,” he says, with an attempt at a smile. “I … well, I want to say _it’s different_ , but I know it’s not, not really. I’m sorry.”

“People die in wars,” Erik says. A breeze blows through the torn tent wall, rifling the papers on the floor, blowing the top two sheets of parchment across the dirt. “If you hadn’t killed him, I would have. And I’m sorry that it had to be you. But it was.”

“It’s selfish, but I’m sorry it was me, too,” Charles says, with a self-deprecating snort, looking away, out the open flap at the soldiers outside. “I have more important things to worry about, it’s stupid that this is what’s sitting on my mind.”

“It’s not stupid,” Erik says, “but it isn’t productive, either. If you keep ruminating on it like this, you won’t be able to protect yourself should you need to do it again. You can’t hesitate. Not even for a second.” He reaches out and tugs Charles forward by his hip, settling his other hand on the outside of Charles’ upper arm, smoothing down toward his elbow. “You have to put it out of your mind, at least until the war is over.” He can’t … if he lost Charles, he would never forgive himself for letting Charles come to the front and putting him in this kind of danger. Charles is powerful enough to kill with a thought, yes, but only if he can _bring_ himself to.

“I’d much rather just knock people out, or make them think they were priests and dedicated to helping the poor,” Charles says, but he leans into Erik’s touch anyway, projecting reassurance at him, like a warm cloud. “Except for Shaw. Shaw … is a different case.” Charles’ expression turns determined, and he glances up, almost like he’s heard a noise. “Speak of the demon -- we’d better move. The King in question’s scouts just came into the range I’m monitoring, which means he’s no more than half a day from here. If we want to get to the new position before he arrives then we need to get the army hustling.”

 

~*~

 

They send a runner, and Shaw agrees to meet at dusk in the large parlez tent Erik’s men have erected in the neutral land between the Northern and Southern camps. They set Lorna up with one of the younger aides and leave her happily playing with a few metal baubles Erik sculpted for her from broken shields as he, Charles, Logan, and Captain Drake leave the light and noise behind them, walking into the grey emptiness of no-man’s-land. Traditionally, no weapons are to be brought to parlez, but with all of them Gifted, the point is moot. Erik is the only one in their party who requires something to manipulate in order to use his power, but he no longer needs the magnetic air of a storm to call lightning under his control -- and he can feel, now, the iron pulsing through the blood of anyone standing within three metres’ radius of him. It’s enough. Even so, and even with Charles at his side, Erik feels strangely naked as they walk into the tent.

It’s dusk, but the table is still empty. “What the fuck,” Logan says.

“He’s going to make us wait,” Erik says, and he pulls out the chair directly opposite that which will be Shaw’s, sitting down. “He wants to make us feel like spoiled children rebelling against their father. He’ll come once he’s certain we’ve had plenty of time to sit and stew in it.”

Charles shakes his head and takes the seat beside Erik’s, folding his hands on the tabletop. “It’s all gamesmanship,” he says, “but we should also look out for nasty surprises. If he’s intending to meet us in the dark, that means neither army can see if anything happens that’s against the rules -- it would be our word against his, assuming we even survived it.”

“That’s why we brought you,” Erik says, turning a grin in Charles’ direction and reaching across the space between them to ruffle his fingers through the hair at the back of Charles’ head. 

Charles glances at Erik; his eyes are serious, and there’s concern in the timbre of his mind where Erik can feel his presence. “I haven’t sensed Shaw specifically at all since his party arrived, or behind us on the road, either,” he says, fingers tapping against the wood. “His mind is very distinctive; it’s not likely I’d miss it. I’m not entirely convinced that he’s even here.”

That -- that sets something uneasy roiling under Erik’s skin. If Shaw doesn’t come … if he doesn’t take the bait …. They can destroy Shaw’s troops whether the man himself attends parlez or not, but to have Shaw deny him the pleasure of killing him himself, after all this time -- after _everything_ \-- it rankles at him 

“He’ll be here,” Erik says, voice coming out hard. He has to be here. Surely he wouldn’t miss a chance to humiliate Erik one last time.

But the evening drags on, dusk tipping into nightfall, and Drake goes to light candles around the tent and on the table, illuminating them in a low golden glow. Without metal nearby to sink his senses into Erik feels cold and barren, and what had been a dull anxiety in the pit of his stomach is creeping up his spine now, infusing his whole body with its poison. It’s all he can do to keep his posture lax and his hands settled on the arms of his chair, to wait.

Charles has just begun to say, “We’ve waited long enou -- ” when there’s a sudden fanfare of trumpets from the Southern camp, loud and brassy; then a sound of loud cheering and shouting from Shaw’s men as a contingent breaks away from the near edge and starts across no-man’s-land towards the parlez, four figures barely visible in the dim light of the quarter moon.

Erik shifts in his chair, abruptly uncomfortable, fingers gripping so hard his knuckles go white. He makes himself take in a deep, steadying breath and closes his eyes, fighting to quell the sick sense of dread that wants to overtake him. Charles’ mind brushes against his, the touch no heavier than a wisp of thought, and Erik opens his eyes again. 

_Erik,_ Charles thinks, his mental voice urgent. _Erik, I can only feel three of them. One of them just --_ isn’t there.

 _Is Shaw with them?_ Erik pushes back, sitting up straight and trying to strain his eyes to see through the heavy darkness, past the candlelight in the tent which now seems blindingly bright. _Charles, can you feel **Shaw?**_

After a moment Charles says, slowly, _He’s there -- I can see him through the others’ eyes, but I can’t_ feel him _. He’s wearing some kind of helmet, it must be keeping me out._

Erik takes in a sharp breath through his teeth, and looks at Charles, finds Charles already looking at him, blue eyes gone wide. “Emma,” he says, barely noticing that he’s speaking out loud. “She must have felt it when we left, when you made them not-notice us. She told him.”

“Well, shit,” Charles says. 

Drake looks confused at the apparent nonsequitur, but Logan just rolls his eyes and says, “It’s rude to keep your conversation from the rest of the tea party, ladies.”

“Logan knows?” Erik says, frowning at Charles, but Logan answers before Charles can -- “Yeah, he told me after he got that damned letter from the King. You’d think ‘oh, the Duke Consort’s a telepath’ would be the kinda information you’d want to let your Captain of the Guard know when you’re tasking him to look after him, but you’re the one that makes the rules, your Grace,” and he draws an exaggerated, almost swaggering bow in Erik’s direction. 

Drake just looks flabberghasted, speechless, but there’s no time to deal with him now. Shaw is at the edge of the candlelight, and there is a gleaming metal helmet covering his head -- one that Erik can’t even feel with his powers.

“Erik,” Shaw says, his voice as dry and affectionless as desert sand. “I do hope I’ve not kept you waiting.”

Erik very consciously does not shift in his seat again, even under the focus of Shaw’s gaze, which more than ever makes him feel nauseous and overheated, as if all the emotions he’d ever felt for Shaw are just now coming to a head. 

“Sebastian,” he says, and doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. “Have a seat.”

Shaw raises an eyebrow at that, but says nothing, instead taking the offered chair as his men take up positions behind him, guarding his back and, incidentally, blocking the view of the inside of the tent from the Southern army. “How unusual of you to bring your omega to a parlez,” Shaw continues as if their conversation is perfectly normal. “Though given your actions to date, I suppose risking the life of your husband so soon after a heat is the least of your crimes.”

Erik doesn’t rise to the challenge, wrangling the surge of his temper to say, instead, “I’m sure you are aware the Duke Consort is unusually gifted.”

“Indeed,” Shaw says, with a slow, lizardlike blink of his pale eyes. “I had a good laugh at my own expense when I realised what I had allowed to fall into your hands, Erik. Tell me, do your weapon’s edges cut you at night when you share a bed, or do you keep him sheathed until required?”

“Hardly,” Charles says, and though his hand is gripping Erik’s thigh tightly under the table his voice is almost bored, matching Shaw's tone. “Make up your mind, your Majesty -- either I am helpless and Erik is putting me in harm’s way, or I’m a sword for him to wield against you. I can’t be both. I must say, the fact that you feel you need the helmet is flattering.”

“I brought you here to discuss terms,” Erik says, intervening before the situation can deteriorate further. “I assume you have some.” He sets his hand atop Charles’, lacing their fingers together, but doesn’t look away from Shaw.

Shaw’s smile is like the slash from a knife. “Complete surrender,” he says, with obvious relish. “If you give yourselves over to me, I will allow your child to live, and raise her to rule your lands when she is of age, provided she hasn’t inherited your husband’s Gift; I cannot allow a telepath to live, even if the convention would be to leave your family be. If you do not surrender, then I will kill every last Northern man, woman and child on this field, and do with the North as I please.”

“You must know by now that I would rather see Lorna dead than as a child in your hands.”

“Perhaps. But does the bearer of your child agree?”

“I would rather kill her myself,” Charles says, and the presence of his mind becomes palpable in the tent around them, enough that Shaw’s men shift uneasily, wide-eyed and nervous.

“Here are my terms,” Erik says, and he sits back in his chair, folding his fingers together and smiling at Shaw, a tough, bitter thing on his lips, a parody of all the leering grins Shaw’s directed at him over the years. “Genosha recognises the North as a sovereign state, reverting to that status it held before my father became Duke. For your crimes against your own people, I will have his head.” He points at the first of Shaw’s officers. “For your crimes against telepaths, I will have his head.” The second. “For your crimes against the North, her head. And for your crimes against me and my people, the Frjáls people,” Erik’s smile widens painfully, “I will have yours.”

There is a long and pregnant pause.

Shaw’s bland expression crumples in on itself, his eyes narrowing and intensifying, until his face is lined with a deep and terrible anger, his hands clamping so tightly on the table’s edge that Erik can hear the wood creaking, ready to break. “Frjáls?” Shaw asks, the words coming out like swords, jagged and aimed to kill. “You are one of those filthy creatures?” He pauses, then his eyes narrow further, until he hisses, “Your _mother_.”

It’s strangely gratifying, the raw fury on Shaw’s face, to finally see him wearing something that isn’t bland and emotionless, and Erik’s fear dies in that instant, blackening and withering inside him. “Yes,” he says. “I am, and she was, and my daughter is.” He tilts his head to the side just slightly. “You seem surprised, Sebastian. Could you not see it, just to look at me?”

“What a waste of your father’s blood,” Shaw says, teeth bared as he gets to his feet, his body set in an alpha posture, chin high and shoulders set, his hands fisted at his sides. “A Snowlander, and mated to a telepath! There can be no accord between us. I will see you on the field, Erik, and I will do what must be done -- the extermination of vermin.”

Erik does not get up -- just watches him go, flanked by his officers, and each breath makes him feel more lightheaded, but he knows the war is begun now, and only one of them will live to see the end of it.

 

~*~

 

 

_Charles_

 

Shaw cannot hide the preparations for a dawn attack from Charles, not when so many minds are waking and active in the early hours; Charles wakes up with a strong and pounding sense of fear and anticipation thrumming through his head, and he lays awake for a moment sorting it away before he rolls over and wakes Erik to tell him they need to get ready. Erik grunts, groans, then gets out of bed to go wake his officers, and then -- and then, Charles thinks, laying there in the darkness, the only light coming in from torches outside gently glowing through the walls of their tent, then there is very little for Charles to do but wait.

Or -- no, actually, he thinks, sitting up and letting the blankets fall away from his body. There may be too many alphas out in Shaw’s army for him to control them all; even if he’d had the chance to practice his telepathy without fearing discovery and execution, it would have been too many, the alphas out there numbering in the thousands. But what he can do, and what he excels at from all those years of hiding, is subtlety.

He closes his eyes, centres himself, then expands from the inside out, rippling out like a cobweb unrolling over the battlefield.

 _How can we fight the Northerners?_ he whispers, sending the thought across no-man’s-land and into Shaw’s camp, sending it among the soldiers there and letting his web brush gently against their minds, only enough to register subliminally, to rear its head as their own thought, in their own voices. _We saw how they fought against the Svarti, when we were utterly decimated -- if we couldn’t beat the Svarti how does the King expect us to beat the Northerners? Their Duke fights like a monster, and everyone knows he can’t be killed ...._

Charles can feel the thoughts spreading in Shaw’s camp like the miasma of a disease, seething in little pockets of fear and starting to be discussed around campfires, the soldiers looking at one another as if hoping someone else will voice it first. Satisfied with this, he reaches out to Erik, who is at the armourer’s tent, selecting a new sword to replace the one he lost to Azazel; the blade he stole from the guard in the palace was not made for battle.

 _I’ve been spreading unease in Shaw’s troops,_ Charles says, slipping the thought in alongside Erik’s considerations of steel and iron, unobtrusive until Erik turns his mind to pay attention to it. _I wondered if I should do the opposite for our side -- buoy them up -- but wasn’t sure if you’d consider that tampering. What do you think?_ Lorna starts fussing and Charles opens his eyes, then reaches over to pick her up, checking her swaddling even as he maintains the connection with Erik.

He can feel Erik considering it, and the pressure of Erik’s thumb against the fuller of a blade, the way the steel sparks in Erik’s senses. _Do it,_ Erik agrees after a moment. _It’s no more tampering than my giving them a speech would be._

 _All right,_ Charles says, as his hands strip Lorna’s messed cloths away and wipe her up ready for a new set. _Shall I make sure they know I’m there, though? I just wonder if they might resent it later on, if they put two and two together once they all know what I am._

A twinge of something like dismissal from Erik’s mind. _Your telepathy is part of who you are. You are the Duke Consort. If they cannot respect you, they will keep it to themselves out of respect for_ me.

Charles smiles, just a little, because it’s very Erik, even if he tends to think it’s naïve to make it that simple; still, it’s agreement, and so he spreads his mind wide again, reaching out this time to the men on his side of the divide. _People of the North,_ Charles says into all of their minds, making his voice strong and firm, as if he might just be stood in front of them, speaking loudly to an audience. _Do not be alarmed -- I am the Duke’s Consort, and yes, I am a telepath. I’m speaking to you now to tell you that I can see into the hearts and minds of the Southern army, and we are stronger, faster, and braver than the soldiers we face -- dispirited, deeply wounded by the battle with the Svarti, and afraid to come against us._

He infuses the words with emotion, drawing from the pit of his stomach, like pulling out the strongest, most visceral feelings into the light -- courage, loyalty, pride, each one colouring his mental voice and expanding to include those who hear him. _You might ask why I am siding with you, being from the South myself. The answer to that question is that I believe the South has become corrupt, damaged by an evil ruler who would turn its goodness sour, and that the North can cut out that canker before it spreads any further. I believe in the freedom to follow our beliefs, and,_ he pauses here, injecting a little irony, _our Gifts, and not being afraid of persecution for imaginary crimes._

_I believe in all of you, as does your Duke, my husband, and above all, I believe that we will win this war. Believe in it yourselves, and we will prevail._

There’s a long and tremulous pause, both of sound and thought, in the camp then, and Charles waits with his heart in his mouth for the response -- he has never broadcasted what he is before, doesn’t know what to expect, and he can’t help but fear that the soldiers will come after him, horrified at their Duke’s choice of husband.

And then …

A loud cheer starts up somewhere, followed by another, and the camp comes alive in a hullabaloo of voices cheering and feet stomping, jeering insults at the Southern camp and, above all, a great wash of energy from all of those minds, awe and surprise and _a telepath, he’s a telepath, aren’t they all dead?_ and then, _we have a telepath on our side!_ that makes Charles’ breath catch as if he’d been kicked in the chest, sharp and almost painful in its intensity. 

Erik’s amusement and pride is a palpable thrum through the midst of all of it, more directed than the rest as Erik aims it specifically at Charles. _I knew they would love you._

 _Glad I could help,_ Charles says softly, still overwhelmed by the response, picking up Lorna to cuddle her close; she won’t tell anyone if Charles’ eyes are a little wet.

He feels Erik’s mind drawing closer, and a few minutes later Erik is ducking into the tent, a new sword sheathed at his hip, smiling as he bends down to press a kiss to Charles’ forehead. “It’s almost time,” he says. “Do you know where you’re going to be?”

“I understand there’s some sort of command post at the edge of the camp where I’ll be able to see the field?” Charles replies, getting to his feet and reaching now for his clothes to start getting dressed. “I’ll set up there, see what I can do. The problem I’ll face is deciding whether to focus small, and affect individuals deeply, or try to go wide but shallow. I’ll just have to see what works best, I guess.”

“I know you’ll do well,” Erik says, and the undercurrent of sincerity in his mind reinforces his words. On the floor, Lorna sits and gazes up between her parents, tiny mouth open, confused and interested by the goings-on around her.

“And you, poppet, are going to spend the day at the centre of camp, surrounded by armed guards,” Charles says to her, bending down to pick Lorna back up once he’s dressed and burying his nose for a moment in her hair, smelling the clean baby scent of her. “Stay safe,” he says to Erik, looking over at him and feeling all over again a deep pulse of love, and worry, and tenderness that he shares with Erik, unable to shake the fear that this could be the last time they see each other. “Don’t do anything more stupid than usual.”

Erik curls his hand round the back of Charles’ neck and smiles at him, tilting his head forward so their brows nearly touch and murmurs, “Let this be the day I bring you Shaw’s head on a spike.” 

Charles tips his mouth up and kisses him, hard and fierce, lips mashed together almost violently; he tries to put all of his feelings into it, to make it worth it, if it _is_ the last. Erik’s mouth is open and harsh beneath his own, kissing him back, and for once Charles pays no attention when Lorna fusses at being ignored, too invested in the way Erik’s hand is gripping his hair so tight, the hot rush of breath against his cheek.

“I will see you again soon,” Erik says when they’ve parted, both of them still gasping for breath a little, Erik’s eyes bright and his lips red-flushed. “I promise.” His fingers twist in Charles’ hair, holding him there and Charles can feel it beating out of Erik’s mind like a drum, how much he doesn’t want to let him go.

“All right,” Charles says, and his smile is tight. “Let me give Lorna to Lieutenant Bartholomew and I’ll walk with you.”

Giving over Lorna into the Lieutenant’s waiting arms is one of the hardest things Charles has ever done, her little hands gripping hard at his collar demanding not to be let go -- but he has to, _has_ to go, and so he pries her loose, giving Bartholomew a firm glance and confirming with his mind that she is ready to defend Lorna to the death, if need be. Lorna wails and cries as Charles turns away, and he flinches as he walks swiftly between the tents and bedrolls, head drawing down as if that could drown out the sound of her tears.

“Let’s go,” he says to Erik when he reaches him, and together they head out to meet Shaw’s army.

 

~*~

 

Charles was wrong when he thought leaving Lorna was the hard part. This is the hard part.

Men and women are dying like flies out on the field of battle, laid out before him like some terrible smorgasbord of death and violence, and in his mind’s eye it’s like seeing the stars go out, one by one, obliterated by the darkness as soldiers fall, and fall, and fall. It’s only with a great effort of will that Charles is still stood here watching; the screams and crashes of metal are horrendous, but nothing to the feeling of seeing so many people die, and feeling it in his head, the moment when the light dies.

Such a waste, he thinks, and deliberately reaches out and turns a cluster of Shaw’s soldiers upon one another before they can reach Erik. The alphas jerk like marionettes, and there’s a moment where their bodies are stiff and awkward -- fighting him -- before one of them cuts down another, and then it’s just vicious, bloody work, ended only when Erik skewers the victor from behind and lets the vacated body fall limply to the earth.

The void around Shaw’s mind is entirely hidden in the morass of humanity down below, and Charles searches for him through other eyes even as he turns his thoughts to the East, and the Svarti army waiting in the wings. _Now,_ he says to the General, and there’s a far-off roar of voices as the Svarti General gestures for his troops to ride for the rear of Shaw’s army.

And all the while those stars flicker and fade, until it feels to Charles as if he’s drowning in the darkness between stars, so much of it clinging to him like black pitch, making each mental effort greater than the last from carrying so much dead weight.

The crash of the Svarti against Shaw’s rearguard is audible even to Charles’ physical ears, a cacophony of metal and breaking bodies, and he jolts out of the light trance he’s been maintaining only to find himself laying on his back in the Command tent staring at the canvas overhead, a worried-looking officer peering down at him and biting her lip.

“I’m all right,” Charles says, but it feels like talking through a mouthful of cotton wool.

The officer looks dubious. “Here,” she says, and a horn cup wavers into view, clasped carefully between her hands.

Charles has to sit up to drink from it, carefully trying to hide the way he’s shaking even as he casts a line back out to where Erik is dueling one of Shaw’s noblemen, swords flashing back and forth in deadly combat. The water is warm, but clean, and he sips at it gratefully as he tries to get himself back into the battle.

 _I’m going to call in the dragons,_ he says to Erik when he feels as though he can keep his ragged state from bleeding over and distracting Erik. _I’ll instruct the alphas to fall back or they’ll get crisped, but that means you, too._

 _Already?_ Erik thinks at him, but it’s tied to an acknowledgment that Charles has a better sense of the battlefield dynamics than he does on the ground. _All right,_ he says, after he’s turned his opponent’s sword against him and sent him gagging to the dirt. _I’ll --_ He breaks off abruptly.

Charles has found Shaw. Erik is looking at him right now.

 _Be careful,_ he says, his heart pounding hard in his chest, but Erik is already turning his sword in his grip, entirely one-minded as he climbs the rocky knoll, cutting down Shaw’s personal guard with three fast, well-placed steel projectiles.

Everything inside Charles is tying itself into knots, and he reaches out desperately with his mind towards the hills to the north, crying out, _Erik has found the Southern King, now is the time for you to attack --_

And he hears in response Andvari’s voice, like a great and echoing call from a deep cavern, _We come._

Charles can't help it; he holds his breath and holds fast to Erik, stuck to him like a second skin, until it's almost the same thing as _being_ Erik, and they attack Shaw with a roar, mindless of Shaw’s Gift; he can feel Erik's power trying to grasp at the helmet but slipping off it like oil on water, fruitless,Shaw’s body rippling as he absorbs the impact of the blow. When he strikes back at Erik with his ceramic sword the force is that much stronger; they stumble, rocks skidding beneath their boots. Erik tries to pierce Shaw’s leather armour with his fast-spinning metal spheres but it’s useless, it just gives Shaw more power, like blowing on hot coals. 

Shaw laughs, a high and terrible sound, and when his sword slams against Erik’s this time they are thrown back, landing in a mad scramble to stay upright even as Shaw walks deliberately after him, _toying_ with him, eyes ablaze with vicious joy.

They grasp out for anything metal on Shaw’s body, anything that could be used against him despite his power, but even the fastenings on his armour are leather. Erik is back on his feet, waiting for Shaw to approach this time, but the pommel of Erik’s sword is slippery beneath their grip; he’s going to die here, this is it, the end --

Charles is reaching deeper, tangling into Erik’s mind; his physical body is crying out, but he's all thought, memory, making himself into a thousand ropes and tying himself to Erik, desperate to hold onto him -- and then --

A scream, followed by many more, and both Erik and Shaw turn to look. Andvari lands behind Erik, his enormous teeth bared in a snarl as he draws in breath; and despite Charles' terror Erik whips around to look at Shaw again, grinning fiercely as he takes a half-step back, relishing the look of rage and disbelief on Shaw’s face.

Charles can feel it when Andvari’s breath turns hot -- the sudden inrush before the exhale, and there's nothing he can do -- he jumps to his feet on a scream of his own as down on the battlefield Andvari breathes out _flame_ , the searing blaze utterly enveloping Erik and surely immolating him even as it smashes into Shaw like the hammer of the gods.

 _ERIK!_ Charles screams, but what he gets back isn’t fear and agony, it’s -- heat like sitting by a warm fire, a manic sort of giddiness as the dragonfire blasts around Erik but doesn’t burn him, the flames licking at his skin like hot fingers. Clutching at his chest, Charles sinks to the ground on his knees, praying thanks fervently to every god out there, but the relief only lasts until the flame Andvari is pouring out flickers strangely. Erik’s elation turns to alarm as the fire falters, flickers again, then almost seems to be pulled past him, dragged out of Andvari by main force.

And when the fire dies Sebastian Shaw is standing in the ashes, naked but for the helmet and laughing, glowing red from head to foot with the absorbed energy of dragonfire shining out of him, casting a terrible light across the blackened ground.

 _Kenig_ , Andvari says to Erik, who is equally naked save for the blade in his hand -- and Erik must know what it means because he reacts, moving back and grasping onto one of the horns at the back of Andvari’s skull, pulling himself up astride the dragon’s back, gripping tight against the smooth scales with his bare thighs. Andvari beats its wings once, pulls them into the sky just as Shaw releases his stored-up dragonfire out onto the battlefield, searing it into Erik’s own troops.

 _Fall back,_ Charles cries out to the rest of the men, though for many it’s too late -- the blast of energy is like a ripple in water, but it scythes through the ranks and cuts men and women in half like paper dolls, then sets fire to the pieces. The other dragons are flying in now, supporting the retreat by scorching any areas of Shaw’s army they can without hitting the King himself, who is still laughing in the middle of the field with his sword in one hand, skin filthy black with soot.

He stops laughing when he looks around and sees the destruction being wrought against his own soldiers all around him, the still-battling horde of Svarti behind his lines.

“Fall back,” Shaw bellows to his army just as Andvari lands with a heavy quaking of the ground beside the command tent, almost knocking it over with the wind of his wings; Charles dashes outside to grab hold of Erik, ignoring the heat still pouring off him from the flames and flinging his arms around his shoulders, dragging him down into his embrace and holding him tight.

“We have to get that helmet off him,” Erik says through gritted teeth, and he’s shaking a little in Charles’ arms, fingers digging painfully into the flesh beneath Charles’ shoulder blades.

“I’m open to suggestions, but if your Gift doesn’t work, I don’t know how we could get close enough to take it off without him killing us,” Charles says bluntly, ignoring the brushing sensation of Andvari’s mind against his own, assessing him -- for what, Gods only know. “He’s retreating; we need to rally the troops and harass him from the rear. And we need to get you some clothes.”

“Right,” Erik says, lips twisting up in a tight grin as he finally steps back from Charles, wiping some of the soot from his face with the heel of his hand.

Charles looks back down at the battlefield, at Shaw pacing the rear and killing off the stragglers of the Northern army, trying to catch another blast of dragonfire; he’s found a bow from somewhere and is shooting at Rók and Farvaðri, trying to bring them down. “If we let him retreat we’ll be chasing them to the Capital, and once he’s within those walls Shaw could keep us out indefinitely,” Charles says, throat tight as he looks back at Erik. “You’re right, we have to get that helmet from him. He’ll kill you on sight -- but me? I think he’ll pause, at the very least. I’m going down there.”

“No,” Erik says immediately. “Absolutely not. I’ll send a flank around to block off his troops’ exit, and we’ll figure out the helmet somehow. But you aren’t going down there. I won’t allow it.”

“It’s not a question of allowing it or disallowing it,” Charles says, though the thought of it is enough to terrify him, to make him stiffen his spine and raise his chin to hide the tremor in his hands. “We don’t have anyone fast enough, or strong enough, to take Shaw on one-on-one here. If Armando were here, then maybe he could, but we won’t just -- magically find someone. And we can’t guarantee that we’ll find him to fight again before he gets recharged with accidental dragonfire. You’ve said it yourself, and so has he -- the only thing that could kill him is a telepath. That’s me. And if I can get close enough to distract him, control another person on the field to get the helmet -- ”

“I told you, Charles, I won’t --”

 _I will,_ Andvari interrupts, its great black head coming around so that its eye can see both of them at once, startlingly close. 

Charles turns back to look at the dragon, almost too close to focus on. "You will?"

 _Your mate is correct, Kenig, that it must be done now, before circumstances may change out of our hands,_ Andvari says, its voice almost ponderous in its slow measure, like a far-off avalanche, sounds echoing up from a deep well _But, little telepath, I will go first, and I will capture the Southern King for you; I can withstand his powers, for a time, and if you may remove his helmet for me, I can kill him myself. But it is not safe for you to go into battle with this human alone while you are with egg._

With -- oh. Oh.

“It’s Erik’s and my job to end this, but I would appreciate the help in holding him,” Charles says faintly, but his breath is catching in his chest, tight and hitching, and he can’t take in for a moment what Andvari has said. He knew it was possible, even probable, but ... “You can tell this soon?” he asks, a hand shifting automatically to his belly, covering it with his palm.

 _There is a spark inside of you,_ Andvari agrees, shifting on its four feet to face the field again, wings mantling overhead and blocking out the sun. _If it pleases you to kill the Southern King, it is of no moment to we dragons how it is done, only that it is. But if it is to be now, and it must be now, we should move._

Charles is still reeling a little, but he blinks and shakes his head to try and clear it, focus on the matter at hand rather than the new life the dragon senses growing in his womb. “Erik needs to dress first,” he says, inanely, knowing he must sound ridiculous, his voice still a little faint. “He can’t be naked for this. It’s undignified.”

Erik snorts, but he doesn’t argue, just reaches for Charles and draws him close again, pressing a hard kiss to the side of his head. “Keep your distance from him,” Erik says against his hair. “I don’t want you endangering our egg.” He’s smirking when he steps away, but his skin looks pale. “I’ll be back soon.”

And then all Charles can do is wait, staring down at the fighting below, Shaw massacring the last few men down there, and try not to give in to fear, even as he wraps his arms around himself -- around himself and their second baby. _Gods,_ Charles thinks, even as he feels Andvari’s hot breath brush against him as the dragon shifts and settles, _It’s too soon. It’s all too soon._

 

~*~

 

 

_Erik_

 

Erik feels sick to his stomach thinking about Andvari catching Shaw for them, about Charles going anywhere near him, where he could so easily just … reach out and hurt Charles, could unravel everything they’ve worked for and destroy everything Erik loves with just a flick of his fingers. He lingers a few seconds after he’s changed into one of his lieutenants’ fighting uniforms, grasping onto a tent pole to hold himself up as he dry heaves over a patch of grassy ground. He still feels unsteady when he makes himself straighten and head back up the hill to the Command tent, where Charles and the dragon wait.

He presses his hand against the small of Charles’ back as he steps up next to him, and the contact is more steadying for him, he thinks, than it is for Charles. “All right,” he says, and tries not to think of their child growing in Charles’ belly, tries not to realise just how much more is now at stake.

Charles turns to him with a wry, brave smile that’s not quite convincing as he says, “Let’s go, then. While we still know where Shaw is.”

Andvari surges forward, spreading its great wings and diving down off the cliff toward the battleground below. Erik can see Shaw, the sunlight glinting off his curved helmet, turning to look up as Andvari spews fire along a line of his Southern troops. It’s just far enough distant that Shaw can’t intercept it; he runs at an angle, trying to anticipate Andvari’s next attack. For a second Erik worries Shaw will see it coming, but despite its size Andvari is remarkably agile; Andvari changes direction midair and swoops down, curling its long claws around Shaw’s body and holding him there.

Erik clenches his jaw, half-expecting to see Shaw absorb the energy and force Andvari back -- but the grip is soft, almost gentle, giving Shaw nowhere to run but without exerting pressure against him. Andvari tilts its head up toward them and Erik can feel the dragon in his head, telepathically tugging.

They have him. They really -- they _have_ him. They have Shaw. He’s in their grasp, quite literally, theirs to kill, _Erik’s_ to kill -- 

Erik shudders, once, and then feels something inside him go to steel. “Come on,” he says to Charles, and he leads the way down the slope of the hill into the carnage below. 

Most of the troops have deserted the field, now. Those that didn’t lie underfoot, blood still wet on their cold skin, corpses strewn like so many broken dolls on the bright grass. Erik can practically smell the iron: iron armour, iron blood. Every inch of him feels taut and drawn out on a wire; they step closer and Erik starts to forget everything else, blinded to the bodies, to Charles, to the dragon. He only sees Shaw.

Shaw’s gripping one of Andvari’s long black talons with both hands, grimacing as he pushes against it, brows knit together and teeth bared. He’s expending all his Gift like this. And it’s doing nothing.

Shaw goes still when he sees Erik approaching, and although he must know what is coming he ceases to fight. Maybe he knows it’s useless. Or maybe he still can’t believe he has lost.

His voice when it comes is tight, jagged from the pressure on his lungs. “Oh, Erik,” he rasps, shaking his head, almost theatrical in its overexaggeration. “Dragons, my boy? You always did have a flare for the dramatic.”

“Efficient,” Erik corrects because, well, it works, obviously. He takes a step closer. Like this, naked and caught in Andvari’s grasp, Shaw looks almost vulnerable. But he’s not, and Erik refuses to make the mistake of thinking of him that way. He smiles -- very nearly laughs, baring all his teeth as he slowly closes the distance between them, heart pounding, half-daring Shaw to reach out for him, to put his hands on him and crush him. But he can’t. He can’t.

“Do you really think killing me will help anything?” Shaw asks, conversational. “All it will do, you foolish children, is plunge Genosha into civil war. Erik I know well enough to know he intends to kill me anyway. But you, Charles. You, I suspect, have a more practical bent.”

“I do,” Charles says, and his voice is strangely calm as he steps forward and tugs the helmet from Shaw’s head.

There’s a moment of almost incandescent rage on Shaw’s face, lips drawn back to bare his teeth -- and then -- he just -- _stops_ , as still as stone, though his eyes still move, glancing between them and burning with inner fire.

"There," Charles says, and drops the helmet like it's dirty, kicking it away across the grass.

Erik draws his sword, the slim steel one that isn’t his, doesn’t sing to him with the same familiar song as the one he lost, but will be his soon enough as soon as he’s wet it with Shaw’s blood. He releases the pommel and it floats there in midair between them until he nudges it forward with his Gift, keeping his gaze fixed on Shaw’s. He’s been waiting for this moment since the day his was born. Every second of his life leading up to this moment, and he feels … _happy._

Lightning flickers beneath his skin and each breath is shallow, dizzy. He tilts the blade forward and sharpens its edge and point until it’s like a razor, pressing the tip just below Shaw’s breastbone. It cuts the skin and a single drop of blood slithers down Shaw’s chest, landing on Andvari’s talon. Erik shivers, a sick thrill running through his body. 

"Erik," Charles says, almost questioning.

“I wonder,” Erik says mildly, “how slowly I’d have to push this blade into you, to bypass your Gift. I imagine it will take a very … _very_ … long time.”

"Erik ... " Charles sounds worried, but Erik ignores him again, too caught up in the sight of Shaw, at his mercy at last.

Shaw can’t do anything, too tied up in the telepathic hold of his mind to even speak, and Erik is almost trembling with anticipation, about to start pushing forward when Charles says from behind Erik, sounding tired, now, almost resigned, “Just die.”

There’s a moment before anything happens, and then -- the light in Shaw’s eyes, that unholy blaze, flickers and blows out like a candle Charles has snuffed, and his body, once so terrifying to Erik, slumps over in Andvari’s grip, all the muscle tension gone from it and leaving behind an empty husk.

Erik loses his grasp on the blade and it falls to the ground, as useless now as Shaw’s corpse, the very tip still red with Shaw’s blood but the steel otherwise bare, clean, still not-his. He reaches out with one shaking hand and tangles his fingers up in Shaw’s hair, pulling his head back. Shaw’s face is slack, his eyes shut. He’s dead.

“How could you?” Erik says, and his voice doesn’t sound like his own; it’s too uneven, too thin. He takes a step back, then another, stumbling over himself, and jerks around to glare at Charles, sudden heat rising up in his chest and flooding his head, stinging at the backs of his eyes. “You.” He grabs Charles’ arms, too-tight, shakes him. “You stole this from me. How could you?”

 _Stop,_ Charles’ voice says in Erik’s head, impossible to disobey; Erik’s hands let go instantly, and Charles looks up at him with a sort of drained but determined cast to his face that looks entirely unlike him, like he’s a different person. “Because you were too invested in killing him,” Charles says quietly, rubbing at his arms where Erik grabbed him but staying put, not stepping back from his betrayal. “Not in justice, but in torturing him -- just like he did you. So I stepped in. I am, after all,” and his mouth twists, not in a smile, “of a practical bent.”

“You don’t get to make that choice for me!” Erik yells. “He was mine to kill -- _mine!_ ” 

And now he’s dead. Erased from the earth, even if his stain reaches down to its core. Erik can’t look at Charles; he twists away, but he only makes it half a step before he’s on his knees in the dirt, gasping for air; his cheeks are wet and he flinches when he hears the _thump_ of Shaw’s body against the ground when Andvari releases it. Erik hunches forward and clenches his eyes shut so he can’t see it, the thing inside his stomach a horrible, roiling mess.

Charles crouches down beside him, a shuffle of boots, and his hand comes to rest tentatively between Erik’s shoulder blades, not petting, just there, a weight on his back anchoring him to the earth. “I’m sorry,” Charles says. “But I really think it was for the best. Hasn’t he done enough to you without making you a torturer, too?” His other hand comes to rest on Erik’s thigh, a half-embrace more uncertain than any touch Charles has given Erik since the very early days of their marriage.

Erik wants to curse at him, but the words won’t come out. He opens his eyes enough to stare down at the ground, blurry through his tears. He can feel his heart pounding through his entire body, racing. The anger is quick and rabid, but beneath it all there’s a strange sense of … relief. 

His shoulders still heaving a little, he turns around to grasp at Charles with both hands, clinging to him as he presses his brow against Charles’ chest, holding on like Charles is the only thing keeping him afloat in the endless ocean.

 

~*~

 

 

_Charles_

 

They stay in the South long enough for Charles to see Raven crowned, a ceremony full of all the pomp and ceremony that Shaw's death lacked -- Raven upon the throne in an ermine cape slung white and brilliant over her blue skin, the towering gold of the carved dragon enormous at the head of the grand hall and all the nobles there in their finery, musicians playing from balconies and, outside, a great roar of the Capital's citizens waiting for her to come ride through the streets on a white horse, the crown sitting heavy upon her red hair. Though her mind is apprehensive, slowly, thankfully, Charles can feel it turning to elation, and that's when he knows that despite all the fancy preparations and elaborations, Raven will be all right. It makes it easier for him to leave her there, when finally he and Erik return to the North.

A Northern coronation could not be more different.

When they finally arrive in Ironhold the walls of the fortress tower over them, blocking out the sky -- but no longer intimidating, threatening, the way they were when Charles first rode in from the South, to marry an unknown man and hope for the best. Now the enormous stone fortifications are covered in people cheering and hanging over them almost dangerously, not in finery but in their everyday clothes -- held back from falling to their deaths by their suspenders, they may be dressed in rough shirts and patched trousers, but all of them are shouting together:

" _ERIK! ERIK! ERIK!_ "

"They remember your name," Charles calls across to Erik, riding beside him, and Erik turns to grin at him, teeth bared and white. It's a relief in its own way -- it took a while for Erik to really smile again, after Shaw died, and Charles lets it sink into his bones, relishing the joy in Erik's mind as they ride through the long tunnel and into the fortress proper.

The bailey is just as crowded, Northerners and Frjáls alike pressed side by side; abovehead the dragons perch on the ramparts, Rók gusting smoke from her nostrils, Farvaðri's teeth bared and Andvari, as always, a black shadow, watching. The kennari waits at the far end, and away from the cold blue light of the glacier he looks much younger than Charles had thought he was, if pale, and stooped from living in the caves. 

Erik dismounts in a single, easy motion and waits for Charles, reaching to take his hand as soon as Charles is on his own feet again.

"They don't waste time, do they?" Charles asks, a little breathless from the volume of emotion he can feel from the crowd -- it's been a long two months riding back from the South, with few minds around to hear. In contrast this is like standing between twenty orchestras at once. "Don't you get a breather between getting home and getting crowned?"

"I suppose not," Erik says, still grinning. "Come on. Let's get it over with, shall we?"

Erik keeps hold of Charles' hand all the way up the length of the bailey, letting go only when he must, darting forward to press a kiss to Charles' lips, a gesture met with another wave of applause and yells from the crowd. 

The kennari is smiling, too, his pallid skin creasing around the corners of his eyes, and when Erik goes to him he kneels easily before the holy man, still almost as tall even kneeling.

"Duke Erik Lehnsherr of Ironhold, known as Ironscale," the kennari says in a voice that is quiet, but somehow carries despite the cacophony of people shouting, echoing in the bailey and quieting the crowd, who fall silent almost as one, "You come to us to be made our King, by right of blood and of conquest. Do you think yourself worthy of this, your family's ancient seat?"

"I do." Simple and straight-forward, with no false modesty or pretense at ceremony.

"Are there any here who would protest the coronation of Erik Ironscale as King in the North?" A moment of silence, one that seems to drag on for several minutes and then -- "The people accept Erik Lehnsherr of Ironhold -- Ironscale -- and name him as King."

The kennari sets a slim circlet upon Erik's brow: dull iron, not polished gold or silver, of a shade with the few strands of grey at Erik's temples. Erik's eyes are closed, his shoulders moving in swift, shallow breaths before the kennari at last tells him to rise. He does, and the crowd erupts in cheers once more, loud whoops and the sound of clanging cymbals.

Charles makes it to his side only just ahead of the wave of people following, and he grabs Erik's arm to brace himself -- and Lorna, still slung to his chest -- as they're swarmed by celebrating Northerners, pushed a little by the tide but still keeping his feet, their heads above water. "Congratulations," he shouts, smiling so widely that he can't help it, knowing Erik must feel the way he's projecting his joy.

Erik reaches for him, curling his hand around the back of Charles' head and smiling at him, at their child. His mind is warm and content, bubbling over with happiness and affection. "It's because of you, you know," he says. 

"I may have had some input," Charles says dryly, but then he laughs, and Lorna shifts against his chest, tilting her head up toward her parents and slapping one tiny hand against Charles' neck.

"Come on," Erik says, and although his voice is soft Charles can still hear it, echoed in his mind. "Let's go home."

 

~*~

 


	18. Epilogue

The sun is burning overhead in the scorched blue sky, cloudless and arching above them where the water laps against Charles' feet, his toes hanging just over the edge of the pool as he watches Erik and Lorna play.

At two years old she's lively and curious about everything, splashing around in the water like a natural -- a year of bathing on the roof shows itself in the way she swims, giggling and kicking hard to try and get away from Erik's tickling hands.

David is quite content for the moment to watch, too, sitting leaning against Charles' side with his fingers in his mouth, brown hair tousled around his little head; already he's showing signs of sharing Charles' Gift, and instead of babbling the way Lorna did he's projecting calm and contentment, though soon enough he'll be wanting to go in the water, too.

"Join us, Charles," Erik calls to him, splashing some of the cold water at Charles' legs. "Don't just sit there and bake." 

"Papa!" Lorna screeches in agreement, paddling over toward him, little legs kicking violently under the water to propel herself forward. The pool is deep, some hundred feet down to the bottom of the chasm, the water clear enough that even with this depth the rocky floor is still visible. Lorna doesn't seem to notice -- or if she does, she isn't frightened by it.

"All right," Charles calls back, with a wry grin, and he picks up David, who wriggles as Charles removes his swaddling until he's gleefully naked, pleased by the sensation of the breeze on his privates. Carefully, so as not to catch himself on the rocky edge of the pool, Charles eases down into the water with one arm for support, keeping David tucked against his shoulder as they slide in.

The water is freezing cold, and he yelps aloud; even David makes a shocked 'O' in his thoughts, too stunned to cry. It's all runoff from the glacier, of course, and Charles probably should have known that his two seal-people wouldn't think to mention it, but still -- "Gods above that's cold!"

"Good for the blood," Erik says, teeth bared in a wide smile. He swims toward Charles and David with a few quick, strong strokes. "Isn't it, _stratski?_ " He pokes at David's fat belly with one finger. 

"Papa, come swim with me," Lorna says breathlessly, paddling closer and tugging on Charles' arm. "Pabbi's been swimming with me for aaaages, I want you to swim with me too!"

Charles smiles, ruffling her hair even as he treads water, keeping them afloat. "Pabbi will have to take David, because David isn't so good at swimming as you are just yet," he says, glancing over at Erik.

"Give him here, then," Erik says amicably, and lets Charles pass David into his arms, tucking him in close against his shoulder, bouncing him a little when David projects mixed discomfort-pleasure at the cold.

"Now come on, Papa! Come _on!"_

Charles takes a moment to look around himself -- at the grey-stoned walls of the clear pool, the sky overhead, the trees and grass and even the volcano in the distance, little more than a quiet mountain now, its fires died down -- he thinks about all the things he's been through to get here, and all the jobs left to do; treaties to negotiate, trade to encourage to the North, state visits and running the household and dismantling the remainders of Shaw's hold on their kingdom -- then turns back to his family, grinning at Lorna and kicking off away from her, towards the far side of the pool. "I'll race you," he calls back over his shoulder, and Lorna cries out in outrage even as Erik laughs, and he can hear her splashing after him, determined and free.

He can feel Erik's fondness for them reaching out to him even as he slows, letting Lorna catch up, and then Erik thinks, deliberate and directed, _Maybe we should have another one?_

 _Not on your life,_ Charles thinks back, sharp and immediate, but then he laughs, as Lorna reaches him and slaps him on the back on the way past.

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find us on tumblr, too! [spicy](http://spicedpiano.tumblr.com) and [tah](http://tahariels.tumblr.com).
> 
> We've had such a great time writing this fic, and hope you enjoyed reading it. :)


End file.
